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filthyjoelslvr · 2 days ago

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The Other Woman(4)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Content: jackson!tommy x reader

Synop: You thought Tommy and you would never be able to move on after the betrayal. After the wreckage, you called a relationship. But life with Tommy is something that only comes in dreams. And then suddenly you get everything you could've ever asked for.

Warnings: pinv, oral (male receiving), riding, praise kink?, light pussy slapping, pet names, hair pulling, fingering, just bunch of love and fluff and how your future with tommy turns out.

Word Count: 9k

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: this was supposed to be short but like I literally could not stop writing!!! i don't want this series to be over I am so sad. I wish I could just turn this into a whole ass chapter book. anyway, I hope yall enjoy the happy ending you've been begging for!!!!

You blink awake to the soft hush of morning creeping through the curtains — early gray light brushing across the wooden floors, birdsong distant, faintly carried in on a breeze that flutters the edge of the blanket. For one slow, quiet breath, you think you’re alone.

But you feel it.

The steady rise and fall of a chest against your back. The warmth of a hand resting just above your hip. The familiar smell of leather, ash, and pine soap.

And there’s Tommy.

Your throat tightens. Even now, months after the damage was done, it still catches you off guard — that he's here. That you’re here. That after everything you shattered between you, he still chose to come back into the rubble and help you build something new. Even if it’s slow. Even if it's fragile.

You move carefully, not wanting to wake him, but his arm curls tighter around your waist before you can even shift.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, lips brushing the nape of your neck. His voice is gravel and honey, so familiar it aches.

You sigh into the space between you. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t wanna be asleep if you were getting up,” he replies, soft and simple.

It hadn’t always been like this.

At first, there was nothing but space between you. Cold, aching space.

When everything came crashing down — your mistakes, Joel’s betrayal, the broken pieces of the life you all shared — it felt like you’d scorched the earth around you. Tommy didn’t yell. He raged. He looked at you like you’d carved something out of his chest. Like you were still holding it in your hands.

But he didn’t walk away.

Not completely.

Weeks passed before he said anything beyond necessary words. Then one morning, in the calm of the diner, he defended you even if you didn’t deserve it. Lost his temper on some stranger harassing you.

He scared you then — knuckles bruised, blood streaked across his face. But you realized in the end, he was more worried about the way he made you flinch than the way you broke him. You realized that the love you felt for each other couldn’t go ignored.

You both agreed to go slow. Just tea now and then. Shared walks. A kind of truce. You never touched. Never crossed that line.

But that line blurred fast.

It started on the loneliest nights. You’d wander through the half-empty streets of Jackson, your coat pulled tight against the wind, staring up at the stars and thinking: Just one night. Just one visit. Not because you needed comfort. But because you missed him.

Missed the way he looked at you. Missed the way you felt when you were known — truly known — and still wanted.

So you found your way to his porch.

You knocked. You stood there, hands cold, heart thudding against your ribs, waiting to see if he’d open the door.

He always did.

And then one night, he didn’t wait for the knock.

You came around the corner and saw him already sitting there. In an old chair he’d dragged out just for that purpose, cup of tea cradled in his hand, one leg bouncing with quiet anticipation. When he spotted you, his whole face lit up like you’d brought summer with you.

“Evenin’, stranger,” he said, grinning as if he hadn’t been checking the street every ten minutes for the past hour.

You always only meant to stay for a little while. Just a conversation. Just one more moment in the warmth of what used to be. But it never stopped there. It became habit. Ritual. It became yours.

Now, you’re in his bed more often than your own. Your boots live by his door. Your toothbrush waits beside his in a chipped ceramic cup. And still, neither of you says the words.

Not until this morning.

You shift under the covers, rolling onto your back. Tommy stretches beside you, shirtless and golden in the early light, one arm tucked beneath his head.

“You know,” he says, glancing sideways at you with a teasing smile, “we were supposed to be takin’ things slow.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Guess I’m not very good at following rules.”

“Oh, I noticed,” he murmurs, and you both laugh — a little bittersweet, a little too real. The memory of what brought you here never quite leaves the room. But it doesn't sit between you anymore. It just… exists. Part of the tapestry now.

“Slow’s just a suggestion anyway,” you say, tilting your head toward him. “We’ve been through hell, Tommy. I think we earned a little bending of the rules.”

His smile softens. “Yeah. Maybe. But I liked the idea of wooing you proper, y’know? Takin’ you on slow walks and awkward first dates. Maybe buildin’ it right this time.”

You reach over and trace a line down his chest, eyes following your finger. “You were always building this right. I’m the one who messed it up the first time.”

He leans in, lips brushing your forehead. “I waited out there for you last night. Sat in that dumb chair like a lovesick idiot for almost two hours.”

You smirk. “Why?”

He shrugs, his voice quieter now. “Because I knew you’d come. And because I wanted to be the first thing you saw. In case you needed a reason to stay.”

That silences you.

You blink, and your throat stings. “Tommy…”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me the way you did,” he says. “But you did. And still— I’d rather face every awful day with you than a single good one without you.”

You look at him like he’s unreal. Like you don’t deserve him. But he sees right through it.

“Don’t do that,” he says gently. “We’re movin’ on from the situation. We can’t have it hangin’ over our heads forever.”

You nod, unable to speak. Instead, you pull him close and kiss him — slow, warm, familiar. A kiss full of promises you’ve already started to keep.

The town eventually quieted.

The whispers faded. The rumors died. People went back to their lives, and yours slowly rebuilt itself beneath the radar. The fire burned hot, but it passed. And Jackson had other things to talk about.

Tommy had been made to apologize to that man in the diner — the one who’d said something ugly with too much pride and not enough understanding. And the man had been told, in no uncertain terms, to apologize to you, too.

He did, stiffly, shame flickering behind his eyes.

You didn’t forgive him.

You nodded, lips pressed together, then walked away.

The punishment against Tommy for almost killing that man probably wasn’t harsh enough. Extra patrol shifts. Long, grueling town maintenance hours. Something that said: We don't take sides, but we do protect our own. Tommy said in the real world he would probably be in prison for attempt at murder.

Since then, people had been kind. Warmer. They watched you and Tommy with tentative curiosity at first, then ease. The way his hand always found the small of your back. The way you’d bring him lunch at the wall or stables. The quiet smiles passed between you.

It was no longer scandal. It was just life. A hard-won love, quietly lived.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with Tommy all over again.

Not so soon at least.

You were too cautious, too careful. Too raw from everything that had come before — too aware of how love could twist, how trust could rot beneath the surface of something once beautiful. You thought maybe you’d never be able to love the way you used to.

But it didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn’t some grand epiphany, some explosive, cinematic moment. It happened slowly. Quietly.

It happened in the middle of the night, when you rolled over to find him already watching you with that sleepy half-smile and stubble rough against your skin as he kissed your shoulder.

It happened the first time he reached for your hand in public again — not thinking about it, not bracing for judgment — just doing it, because it felt right.

It happened when he started leaving notes for you on the kitchen counter before patrol. Be safe today, darlin’. Coffee’s still hot. I love you.

This time was different.

This time, you meant it.

You didn’t have to mold yourself into who he wanted. You didn’t have to tiptoe around secrets, or wonder what he didn’t know. You didn’t have to live in the shadow of guilt and shame.

You just got to be with him. And somehow, that was enough.

And maybe it was because you were finally giving each other the truth. All of it. Even the ugly, heavy parts. Maybe that’s why it felt like he was falling for you all over again, too — harder than before.

You could see it in the way he touched you now. How slow and careful his hands were. Not hesitant, but worshipful. Like he’d spent too many nights convincing himself he’d never have this again. Like every kiss was a prayer, every glance a promise he hadn’t yet put into words.

But it didn’t come easy, the part where Tommy had to leave you behind.

At first, even the thought of a supply run had him on edge. He didn’t say it out loud — not in the beginning — but you saw it in the way he lingered by the front door too long, how he’d double-check his gear three, four times. The way his eyes scanned your face like he was memorizing it before he left, just in case you weren’t there when he came back.

Because last time he left…

Last time, you hadn’t waited. Last time, he came home to learn you were wrapped in someone else’s arms — his own brother’s. And even though it shattered both of you, even though you’d spent every day since then rebuilding from the wreckage, that memory still lived in his bones.

It crawled up the back of his neck every time he saddled a horse. It whispered in his ear the second Jackson’s gates closed behind him. What if she does it again? What if you come home and she’s gone?

He never said those words aloud. But you knew. You felt it in his tension. In his silence. In the way he kissed you too hard before leaving and never quite exhaled until he saw you again.

And still, you always waited.

Every time.

Sometimes on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. Sometimes in the front room, reading a book you could barely focus on. Once, in the cold, leaning against the wooden post of the barn in the middle of the night, a lantern beside you just so he’d see you the moment he and his men road their horses through the gates.

The first time he returned from a run and found you already home, arms wide open and smile soft with welcome, you saw it: the relief. The quiet breaking of some invisible thread of fear pulled too tight for too long.

“I missed you,” you whispered into his shoulder.

He held you so tightly you could barely breathe. “Thought ‘bout you the whole damn time.”

You didn’t push him. Never rushed his healing. Just made sure that every time he left, he had a piece of you to carry with him. A necklace tucked into his pack. A note slipped into his jacket pocket. One time, you kissed the inside of his wrist and told him, “If you get scared, just remember I’m still home waiting for you.”

And slowly — slowly — the panic started to fade.

He still got quiet before leaving. Still checked the windows, the doors, made sure everything in the house was right. But it wasn’t about control anymore. It wasn’t fear rooted in betrayal. It was love, plain and simple.

And when he came home, he started bringing you things.

A bar of soap from a trading post outside the city — rich and floral, smelling like lavender and amber. “Thought it’d smell good on your skin,” he said, holding it out almost shyly. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

Next time, it was lip gloss. A deep wine red, dusty but still sealed, tucked in the bottom of a half-destroyed makeup kit he found in an abandoned pharmacy.

“Saw the color and thought of you,” he said with a crooked smile, cheeks pink as hell. “Could picture you wearin’ it.”

You had smiled, slow and real. “Put it on for me, then?” And when he applied the gloss to your lips with gentle strokes, his whole face went soft with awe.

Another time, he brought back a little glass bottle. The label had faded, but he told you the name anyway.

“Chanel No. 5,” he said, setting it carefully on the nightstand like it was priceless. “Used to be real fancy stuff. Like… expensive-expensive.”

You raised a brow. “How expensive?”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say if I gave this to you before the outbreak, you’d probably be proposin' to me.”

You sprayed a little onto your wrist, then touched it behind his ears just to make him blush.

These gifts weren’t just gifts. They were symbols. Little pieces of a man who was starting to trust again. Starting to believe again — that you were really his. That this was real. That the next time he came home, you’d still be here.

And you always were.

Then one night, he had just spent the past hour worshiping you in bed, you felt a shift in the air.

It was late. The candle had burned down to its last bit of wax, and the house was quiet, save for the creak of old wood settling in the cold. Tommy lay beside you, but he hadn’t touched you in a while — not since you'd both thrown your clothes back on. He just stared at the ceiling like it had something to say that he couldn’t.

You rolled toward him. “Tommy?”

His jaw tensed, and for a second you thought he might deflect. Change the subject. But then he sighed, deep and heavy, and finally looked at you.

“There’s somethin’ I need to tell you,” he said. His voice wasn’t shaking, but it was low and worn, like it had been used too much over the years without rest.

You didn’t speak. You just waited.

“I know we’ve been honest,” he said. “More than we ever were before. And I meant it when I said I didn’t want this— us— built on secrets.”

“I know. I told you everything—”

“I know you did,” he cut in, gently. “I believe you. I do.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face like the weight of what he was about to say had sat there for too long.

“I never told anyone this. Not even Joel. Just buried it so deep I could pretend it wasn’t there.” He paused. “But it is. And it always has been.”

You sat up with him, blanket pooling around your waist. He stared at the dying candle like it could somehow forgive him.

“That night… the night the outbreak started,” he said. “Joel, his daughter, and I— we were tryin’ to get out of Austin. Things were goin’ to hell real fast. Infected everywhere. People panickin’. We were in Joel’s truck, just tryin’ to find a way out.”

You nodded. You knew the bones of this story. But not his point of view. Just Joel's.

“We got caught in the city. A car came outta nowhere and hit us. Flipped the truck. I got separated. Joel was carryin’ Sarah— her ankle was busted— and I told him to meet me by the river. Said I’d find another way around.”

He stared down at his hands like they weren’t his anymore.

“I took the alley. Tried to cut across to meet ‘em, like we said. And on the way, I heard screamin’. A woman— trapped in a storefront. Glass had shattered. She was tryin’ to fight off two infected with nothin’ but a piece of broken glass.”

“I couldn’t just leave her. She was beggin’ me. I shot the infected. Took ‘em down, cleared the way. She was cryin’, thankin’ me like I’d just saved her life.” He paused. “But then she rolled up her sleeve.”

A shaky breath escaped his lips.

“There was a bite. Right on her forearm. Deep.” His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t know what it meant, not then. None of us did. But later, when we learned how it spread— when I realized she was already dead even while she was thankin’ me—”

He went quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was flat with shame.

“I wasted time. Time I didn’t have. And by the time I got to the river— by the time I heard the shot—”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached for his hand, held it steady.

“I saw Joel kneelin’ in the dirt, holdin’ her. Sarah was dying” His voice cracked now, raw at the edges. “I wasn’t there when she needed me most. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were filled with a kind of grief you hadn’t seen in him before — not like this.

“She was just a kid. My niece. She looked up to me. And Joel... Joel lost everythin’ that night.”

You tightened your grip on his hand.

“I watched my brother fall apart after that. He changed. Turned cold. Violent. He stopped feelin’. And people always said it was the world that did that to him, but I know better.” He looked back at the fire. “It was that night. It was losin’ her. And part of me knows — no matter how many times he tells me it ain’t true — that Joel blames me.”

Your heart broke at the sound of that truth falling out of him.

“If I’d just kept goin’. If I hadn’t stopped to help that woman. I could’ve shot that soldier before he fired. I could’ve saved Sarah. I could’ve saved Joel.”

He turned to you then, and something in his expression shattered.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever stop carryin’ that.”

You cupped the side of his face, your thumb brushing along the rough line of his jaw.

“You can’t go back,” you said quietly.

His throat worked around the lump in it, but he nodded, just barely.

You leaned your forehead against his, breathing with him. “I’m tellin’ you this because you know the feelin’. Of blamin’ yourself for someone’s death.”

“I love you, Tommy,” you whispered. “And I’m here for you. Whenever it’s hard. You don’t have to act so strong all the time.”

He didn’t say anything. He just held onto you like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

And for once, he let himself grieve. Really grieve. Not just for Sarah, but for all the years he’d spent punishing himself for something he couldn’t undo.

You didn’t try to make him feel better. You just stayed, right there in the quiet, until the weight of it finally started to lift — just enough to let the healing begin.

You had been so consumed in Tommy’s life now. You noticed things.

Little things. His boots by the door next to yours. Your jacket always slung over his dining chair. You started brushing your teeth there more nights than not, and eventually your toothbrush just stayed. When he made dinner, he made enough for two without thinking. When you fell asleep on the couch, you’d wake up with a blanket pulled over you and him sitting beside you, dozing with one hand resting against his cheek — holding his head up.

One morning, over burnt eggs and half-sweet coffee, he said it.

“You should just move in.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked at you like it was obvious. “You’re already here all the time. And your place is just sittin’ there, cold and empty.”

You stared at him, half a piece of toast in your hand. “Are you asking or telling me?”

A lopsided grin tugged at his mouth. “I’m askin’. Kinda hopin’ you’ll say yes, though.”

You didn’t even need to think about it. “Yeah. Alright.”

The next day, he came with you to pack up your things.

It was strange stepping back inside that house — it felt like a version of you that didn’t quite exist anymore still lived there. Dust had gathered along the windowsills, and there were dishes in the sink from weeks ago. Tommy walked the place like it made him uncomfortable. Like he didn’t like remembering the version of you that used to sit alone in this house, waiting.

You were in the bedroom folding clothes when you heard him call out from the other room.

“Hey, uh… what’s all this?”

You walked in and froze.

He was holding a small, beat-up box. Inside were folded scraps of paper, napkins, notebook pages torn out at odd angles. You had nearly forgotten about them.

Or maybe you’d tried to.

He picked one up and read aloud, “‘I saw your patrol pass by this morning. You didn’t look at me. I deserved that. But God, I miss your stupid smile.’”

Your stomach dropped. “Tommy—”

“There’s like twenty of these,” he said, thumbing through them. “Some of ’em are dated. Jesus. You wrote one almost every day.”

Your entire body froze. “Tommy,” you warned, voice already pitching into panic, “put those down.”

But he didn’t. His eyebrows raised as he plucked another from the stack with curious fingers, lips already curling into a grin.

“I made your favorite soup tonight. You didn’t come by, obviously. I left the porch light on for too long and fell asleep in the chair. I dreamed you came home and kissed me like nothin’ ever happened. When I woke up, the bowl was cold.’” He glanced up at you. “Shit. That one hurt.”

You made a strangled noise and lunged for the box. “Give me those. I’m serious!”

He stepped back, holding the bundle out of reach with one hand like a damn big brother at recess. “Wait— wait, hold on, this one’s short. Just says, ‘Still love you. That hasn’t changed.’”

You groaned and tried jumping for it this time. “Tommy, I’m gonna kill you.”

Laughing, he spun away, flipping through more. “Oh, this one’s written on the back of a grocery list. That’s romantic.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “‘You’d hate how I’ve been sleeping lately. Lights on, curtains closed. You used to say I looked haunted when I did that. Maybe I am.’”

You paused mid-lunge, breath catching in your throat.

His face softened instantly. “Hey— sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, backing away now. “I just— I didn’t mean for you to ever read those. I wrote them when you weren’t talking to me. Just… a way to talk to you without pushing.”

He looked down at the box again. “You wrote a lot.”

You crossed your arms, face burning. “Yeah, well. I had a lot to say.”

He smiled to himself and pulled another letter, this one scribbled on what used to be a page from a first aid manual. “‘Saw a man laugh today the way you used to. It knocked the air outta me. I think it’s because I haven’t heard you laugh in so long, I forgot what it sounded like.’”

You swiped at him again. “Tommy, please.”

He caught your wrists and spun you around, holding you gently from behind as he laughed. “Why’re you so embarrassed? These are sweet. Hell, they’re beautiful.”

“They’re desperate,” you muttered.

“They’re honest.” He turned you to face him. “They’re you.”

You looked up at him reluctantly, still flushed. “You done?”

“Nope.” He leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “But I can stop if you kiss me.”

You shoved him lightly in the chest, but he caught your hands and held them there, pressing them over his heart.

“I’m serious,” he said, voice lower now. “I didn’t know you wrote any of this. I didn’t know how bad you missed me.”

“You were trying to heal. I didn’t wanna get in the way.”

“I wish you had,” he murmured. “You’d given me just one of those? I would’ve come crawlin’ back to you.”

He reached back into the box, pulling out a crumbled piece of notebook paper.

“This one’s a whole damn letter about my hands? You wrote an essay about my hands?”

You finally gave up, falling back onto the bed in a mortified heap. “I’m leaving the room. I can’t watch this.”

“You sure?” he called after you as you disappeared into the closet to pack clothes. “This is great stuff. Real emotional.”

“I hate you,” you called back, face hot with embarrassment.

A few minutes later, you heard him come in, but you didn’t turn around. You were still hiding your face behind the closet door.

Then you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I loved those letters,” he said into the side of your neck. “Every single one.”

You groaned. “Please don’t talk about it.”

He laughed quietly and turned you to face him.

“I mean it,” he said, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek. “You pour your whole heart into everything you do, even when you think no one’s watchin’. That’s rare.”

It was late when you finished unpacking the last box in Tommy's room — your room.

Most of your things were already folded into his life: your books beside his on the shelves, your coat hanging next to his in the front hall, your coffee mug already sitting next to Tommy’s like it belonged there.

You stood in the bedroom, barefoot and tired, folding the last of your sweaters into the drawer that used to be empty. Tommy was beside you, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe and watching like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“You know,” he said, a little crooked smile forming on his lips, “this dresser used to look like a damn ghost town. Now it smells like lavender and... whatever that weird lotion is you use.”

You glanced up at him. “Coconut and cedarwood.”

He laughed, soft and warm. “S’what I said.”

You finished folding the sweater and closed the drawer gently, like it deserved peace. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing your hands over your face with a slow sigh.

Tommy walked in and sat beside you, bumping your shoulder with his.

“Feels good,” he said quietly. “Havin’ you here. Like it’s real now. Like I can breathe.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the hum of the night.

Then, casually — too casually — Tommy said, “Y’know, if we keep goin’ like this... We’re gonna wake up one day and realize we did the whole marriage thing without ever signin’ a paper.”

You stilled.

It wasn’t an outright proposal. It wasn’t even a suggestion. But it was a door cracking open — just enough to let something heavy drift in.

Your voice was quiet. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He turned toward you a little. “I mean, we’re practically there. You live here. We sleep in the same bed. I cook, you pretend you like it. We bicker over what music plays on the radio.”

You gave a little laugh. “I don’t pretend, I just don’t think Johnny Cash should be played every time we cook eggs.”

“Well, the eggs like it,” he said with mock seriousness, and you both laughed, tension breaking for just a second.

But then your smile faded. You looked down at your hands, fingers worrying the seam of your jeans.

“I don’t think I ever wanna get married,” you said softly.

Tommy didn’t answer right away.

You went on, quieter, slower. “Joel ruined that for me. I thought marriage meant safety. Permanence. And he made a fool out of it. Out of me. And after everything I did...” You swallowed hard. “I probably ruined it for you, too.”

He looked at you for a long time, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he nodded — once, small. “Yeah. I get it.”

His voice didn’t hold judgment. It was gentle. But the way his shoulders dropped, the flicker behind his eyes — you could tell it landed heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you added, almost a whisper.

He gave you a little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be sorry for bein’ honest.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He rested his hand on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, steady motions. He didn't pull away, didn’t try to convince you otherwise.

That was the difference now. He didn’t push. He just stayed.

“I don’t need the papers,” he said eventually. “Don’t need a ceremony or a ring or a preacher tellin’ me what I already know.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re it for me,” he said simply. “Have been. Always were.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in.

And in that silence, you wondered — maybe marriage wasn’t something you needed. But maybe... someday, wanting it again wouldn’t feel so impossible.

It crept in slowly, like everything good in your life did now.

One morning, you woke to the faint clatter of pans in the kitchen, the smell of strong coffee and fried eggs drifting into the bedroom. Tommy was humming — some off-key country tune he’d picked up from the radio station — and for a second, everything felt normal. Warm. Safe.

Then the nausea twisted in your stomach again, sharp and cruel.

You’d spent days brushing it off — just bad meat, a stomach bug, nerves. But it wasn’t going away. You’d started waking up queasy, meals turned sour in your mouth, and your body felt foreign. Slower. Heavier. The final nudge came in the form of absence: your period never came.

You’d both tried to laugh it off at first.

“Maybe it’s just stress,” you offered, your voice thin.

Tommy scratched your back and gave you that crooked, uncertain smile. “Probably just off this month, right?”

But something about the silence between you afterward told the truth neither of you said aloud. You were scared.

When the town doctor confirmed it — smiling too softly, the word congratulations landing like a shockwave — you sat there blinking like the world had gone quiet.

“Pregnant,” you whispered, testing it on your tongue like it didn’t belong to you.

Tommy didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at you, his hand frozen mid-reach on your knee. His jaw tightened.

Later, you sat on the porch in the fading light, shoulders touching, the trees outside Jackson’s walls swaying gently like nothing had changed. But everything had.

Your hands trembled in your lap. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered.

Tommy’s hand slid over yours, warm and steady. “I know it’s scary,” he said softly. “Hell, I’m scared too.”

You turned to look at him, afraid of what you’d see in his eyes. “What if we can’t keep a baby safe in this world?” Your voice cracked. “What if— what if the infected breach the wall? What if one of us has to go out and doesn’t come back?”

He looked at you then, all gravity and quiet fire. “Then we fight like hell. Just like we always have.”

“But it’s not just us anymore,” you said, voice breaking. “It’s a child. A baby. I don’t want them to grow up in a world like this.”

Tommy reached up, brushing a thumb gently beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. “I will always keep you safe, sweetheart,” he said, firm and fierce. “And our baby. I want this.”

And in that moment — his calloused hand holding yours, his voice so sure — you believed him.

Now, months later, you were nearly full-term.

Your belly curved outward beneath borrowed flannel shirts, the stretch of skin smooth and warm, pulsing with quiet life. Tommy treated you like glass.

“You sit,” he’d grumble every time you so much as reached for a broom. “I got it. That’s an order.”

Some mornings, he barely let you out of bed. He’d bring you tea with honey, adjust every pillow, swaddle you in soft blankets while you rolled your eyes and protested. It didn’t matter — you weren’t going anywhere. He cleaned the house top to bottom like a man possessed, humming under his breath, shoulders tense until he saw you smiling.

He catered to every craving with an unshakable sense of duty. Once, you mentioned you missed cinnamon rolls, and by the next evening, he had bartered for a dusty tin of cinnamon and talked someone into teaching him how to make the dough.

“You’d think I was royalty,” you teased as he served you breakfast shaped like stars and hearts.

“I don’t see no crown,” he smirked, “but you’re the queen of this house.”

He transformed the spare room into a nursery. The walls were painted a soft, dusty blue. He built a rocking chair from scrap wood, reupholstered a dresser with fabric he found at an abandoned school, and with Joel’s help, built a crib — sanding every inch until it was smooth enough for newborn skin. Tiny bears were carved into the legs, Tommy’s own handiwork.

Tommy took every patrol he could, not to get away, but because he never returned empty-handed: a teddy bear with one button eye, old lullaby books, tiny socks, a rattle. He once fixed a neighbor’s roof in exchange for a hand-knitted baby blanket.

That night, when he came home, soaked from rain and tracking mud on the floor, he held the lamb-patterned blanket in both hands like it was something sacred.

“Look what I got for ‘em,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

You could see it in his face. He already loved this baby with his whole damn heart.

Every morning, before he left for patrol, he kissed you soft on the mouth. Then he’d lower himself gently, whisper something against your belly, and press a kiss there, too.

“You keep mommy safe for me,” he’d murmur, lips against the curve of your skin. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

And every time, your heart would ache a little watching him go.

And on one quiet night, the house was calm, the fire low, the walls humming with soft silence. You were stretched out on the couch, legs propped up, belly bare with an old t-shirt of Tommy’s pushed up just below your ribs. Tommy lay with his head resting against your stomach, hand splayed protectively across your skin.

“You know your mom’s a pain in the ass,” he said in a low, amused voice, speaking to your belly.

You laughed. “Tommy.”

He ignored you. “Always tellin’ me to put my socks away, complainin’ when I make her tea too hot. You better be careful.” Then he looked up at you. “Real tough crowd in there.”

“Stop,” you giggled, carding your fingers through his hair.

“But it’s alright,” he continued, grinning. “’Cause babies can hear if you talk to ‘em, y’know. Science. Read it somewhere once.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

He turned his head slightly and grinned up at you. “Hey now.” He turned back to your belly, dramatically conspiratorial. “Mommy’s mean to me, ain’t she?”

And suddenly… the word stopped you. Mommy.

It hit like a wave. You blinked at the ceiling, throat tightening. This moment — this feeling.

He looked up, softened immediately when he saw your expression. “Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes glassy. “It's just… I can’t believe I’m actually going to be a mom.”

Tommy sat up slowly, cupping your face in his hands, kissing your forehead first, then your nose, then your lips.

“Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth. “And you’re gonna be so damn good at it.”

He kissed your belly again, slow and reverent. “Don’t worry about her though. Daddy’s nice. He’ll protect you.”

And there it was again.

Daddy.

Mommy.

You laughed softly through your tears, and he smiled like the whole world was right there in your living room, pressed between your palms.

This was your family. Small, messy, brave.

And it was more than you ever thought you'd get.

Then it began with her first cry — tiny, fierce, undeniable. Amid the chaos of town nurses and exhaustion, Tommy’s tears fell quietly as he looked down at her. “A girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “We got a little girl.”

At home, those early days were slow-motion miracles. There were midnight feeds by lamplight when neither of you knew what you were doing, fumbling blankets and heating bottles, hearts pounding. But instinct stepped in. You learned each other’s rhythms: her calm cradle scream, his whispered lullabies. He’d hold her, rocking softly, hands careful and amused, singing songs he’d made up on the spot. You’d watch from the bedroom door, breath caught by how gentle he was.

Months later, she crawled — tiny but determined — straight into Tommy’s arms. He laughed until he shook and squeezed her tight. At eleven months, he bribed her with a piece of chocolate — “milestone fuel,” he called it — and when she took her first shaky steps toward him, he nearly fell over with joy. “That’s my girl!” he cheered, lifting her high, kisses raining on her cheeks while her contagious giggle’s filled the air.

Then came her first word: “Dada.” Tommy froze, grin wide as dawn. “She said my name,” he’d boast, chest puffed. “You hear that? I’m her first word.”

He never let it go. Every day she walked in, “Dada!” would greet him, and he answered with picking her up and twirling her around, while you teased that you only carried her for nine long months, but he was still her favorite.

Now, at two, she's all mischief in curls and scraped knees. She shadows him from room to room — “Daddy, where you go?” she asks when he leaves. And yes, he’ll tease you as she flutters up to him on the porch, “I’m the favorite.” You mock-roll your eyes, hands on hips, but you melt when she stumbles over, “Daddy come home.”

Through it all, your bond with Tommy only deepened. You still snuck away for quiet moments — entwined on the porch swing at sunset, laughter drifting in the air, soft kisses stolen in the kitchen, hands finding each other even when the house is crowded with toys and clutter.

Nights when she wakes, crawling into your bed from a nightmare — straight into Tommy’s arms, he whispers, “Daddy’s got you,” and cradles her close to his chest. Still reaching for your hand in the dim room, your breath echoing hers.

Then the test: pregnant again when your daughter is almost three. No nausea this time, just a tremble, a hush, and then that same mouth falling open across the kitchen table. His hand on your belly, eyes wide as the sunrise. “We’re doin’ this again?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

His face glowed. “I’m so happy.” He kissed you — slow, deliberate — and whispered to your belly, “You have the best family.”

Later, walking your daughter through the old orchard, he said it soft, as if dreaming aloud: “We should move. Bigger place outside the walls. A farmhouse. Space for these two…”

You nodded, your heart thudding. “Yeah.”

That evening, he read bedtime stories to your daughter by the fire — her leaning into him, eyes heavy — while you nestled close on the couch. Your head on his shoulder, your hand resting on the swell of your new life. When the fire dimmed and he slipped an arm around you both, you realized: yes, the world was dangerous. But here, with him, your heart knew something sacred, something safe.

In that quiet, growing family moment — father, mother, daughter, and another miracle on the way — you felt it settle between your bones: this was home.

The farmhouse sat just on the edge of Jackson, tucked into a patch of rolling green that always smelled like soil and sunlight after the rain. It wasn’t grand, but it was home. A little too big for some, maybe, with creaking floorboards and windows that rattled when the wind blew strong. But to you and Tommy, it was everything. It held the sound of laughter bouncing down the hallways. It held a pair of muddy boots too small to be his, a blanket always left on the couch, little hair ties and forgotten toy horses strewn across the floors like breadcrumbs back to the heart of your home.

When your second daughter was born, the farmhouse filled with a new kind of softness. Another girl — dark curls, round cheeks, and lungs that let the world know she’d arrived.

Tommy had cried, of course. Not the quiet kind, either. He’d held her against his chest and whispered, “My girls. All my girls.” His voice shook, and you watched the way he looked between your eyes and hers — like he was caught somewhere between disbelief and reverence.

Your eldest, just three and a half then, peeked over the edge of the bed, her hands clasped around a stuffed lamb like it was her security pass into this new world. “That’s her?” she asked, brow furrowed. “That’s the baby?”

“She’s here,” you whispered, and Tommy helped lift her gently onto the bed beside you. She leaned close, eyes wide and glowing with curiosity.

“She’s so tiny.”

“You were tiny like that once too,” Tommy said, ruffling her curls.

Your daughter blinked. “I don’t remember.”

He laughed and left a soft kiss on her temple.

That was the beginning of the four of you — the little unit you didn’t know you’d been building all this time.

Now the girls are five and two, and your days start with the patter of feet and the slam of a screen door you’ve asked Tommy to fix a dozen times. The yard is filled with handmade jungle gym equipment — thick beams carved and sanded by Joel himself. He called it a “retirement project,” but really, it was a labor of love. Towers with rope ladders, a tire swing, a wooden balance beam painted with stars. Gifts for the girls who melted something hard and long-frozen inside him.

Joel comes by nearly every day now, coffee in one hand, a bundle of tools or stories in the other. Grumpy as ever, but soft in the eyes when one of the girls runs out to greet him, arms flung wide. They call him Uncle Joel, and when he’s around, the world just feels steadier.

Tommy and Joel had mended that rift long ago — the one that cracked wide open during the years of anger and blame and guilt. Tommy once told you, late one night as you rocked your oldest daughter in the nursery, that he couldn’t live without his brother. That he’d nearly tried, once. “It was like missing a part of myself,” he confessed. “I needed him back. And I want my daughter to have him too. Hell, Joel’s the only one who can build a swing set that don’t fall apart in a week.”

But behind the laughter and teasing, there’s still a scar that aches when pressed. Some nights, after the house quiets down and the girls are asleep in their beds, Tommy wraps his arms around you a little tighter and breathes out words like confessions.

“I feel guilty sometimes,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “Havin’ all this. These girls… when Joel lost Sarah.”

You turn in his arms, palms to his cheeks. “Tommy—”

“I know. I know he don’t think of it like that. He loves them like they’re his own. But sometimes I see him look at them, and I wonder if it hurts. Just a little.”

You kiss his forehead and hold him until his thoughts soften into sleep.

But Joel never shows it. If he’s hurting, he hides it under the joy he gives to your daughters — fixing their broken toys, telling them bedtime stories from a past life, teaching them how to whistle through their fingers. He never married again, never had more kids. But when he’s with your daughters, he is full — they are his world. And you see it in the way he watches Tommy be a father.

Tommy… God, Tommy.

He was made for this life, even if he never believed it.

You watch him now — on the floor with your youngest, pretending to be her noble steed as she rides his back, squealing with laughter. Or out in the garden with your oldest, helping her plant wildflowers in uneven rows. His hands are always busy — braiding hair with clumsy fingers, patching up scraped knees, lifting them into the sky like they’re made of clouds.

They call him Daddy, and the word rings in your ears like a hymn. Over and over again. “Daddy, look.” “Daddy, help.” “Daddy, where’s my bear?”

You pretend to be annoyed when he smirks and says, “Favorite’s back in the room,” whenever they come running to him first. But deep down, you’re grateful it’s him. Grateful they get to grow up knowing love like this — steady, strong, unconditional.

At night, your five-year-old refuses to sleep unless she gets two kisses — one from you and one from him. She crawls into your bed when thunder shakes the windows, always clinging to Tommy’s arm like he’s her shield. The two-year-old tries to mimic her every move. She calls out “Daddyyy!” when he’s out on patrol and presses her face to the window until he returns.

Sometimes, when you’re tucked under quilts, the girls fast asleep down the hall, Tommy will roll over and whisper, “Can you believe this? This life? Us?”

You turn to him, curl into the crook of his arm. “I believe it.”

Because somehow, in a world built on ruins, you found something unbreakable. You found a man who became a father with his whole soul. You found two girls who filled every silence in your heart. You found peace in a place you never thought you’d see again.

And here, in this little farmhouse where the floors creak and the windows rattle and the porch light always stays on — you’ve built a home. A real one.

All four of you. Whole. Together.

Always.

You knew something was up the second Tommy woke you before the sun had fully risen, nudging you gently with that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “C’mon,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Got a surprise for you.”

You blinked sleepily, still wrapped in warm quilts and the faint scent of your daughters’ shampoo clinging to your skin. “Tommy, what kind of surprise needs to happen at dawn?” you grumbled.

He only kissed your cheek again and said, “You’ll see.”

That’s when you heard the giggling in the kitchen. The girls were already up — giddy, excited, dressed in clothes Tommy definitely hadn’t picked out himself. Your oldest beamed as she held a stuffed bear under one arm and a slice of toast in the other. The little one was babbling nonsense to Joel, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but was managing a soft smile nonetheless.

You narrowed your eyes. “Tommy…”

“They’re gonna stay with Joel today,” he said casually, helping you into your jacket. “Just for a little while. Few hours.”

That made your whole body tense. “Tommy. I don’t know—”

“I know,” he cut in gently, already anticipating your unease. “I know, sweetheart. Believe me, I wouldn’t even think of leavin’ them with anyone else. But they’re safe. And Joel… he’s good. He loves those girls more than he’ll ever admit. You know that.”

You looked back at the kitchen, watching your oldest tug at Joel’s sleeve, demanding he pour more juice. He rolled his eyes but did it anyway, muttering something about sugar gremlins. Your heart twisted.

“I just… what if they need me?”

Tommy reached for your hands and pressed them between his palms. “They’ll be okay for a few hours. You deserve this. Just me and you. Like it used to be.” He smiled, but there was a quiet plea in his eyes. “Let’s have some time alone. Please.”

You hesitated for another moment — but then you nodded, only slightly.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Trust me?”

You huffed a small laugh. “Always.”

You walked for what felt like miles through the woods behind the farmhouse, the air thick with green and birdsong, until you broke into a clearing you hadn’t even known was there. And then you saw it.

A wide, sun-dappled meadow, hidden beneath a canopy of swaying trees, every inch of the ground alive with wildflowers — goldenrod and bluebells, swirls of lilac and poppies. Tommy had laid out your favorite quilt beneath the oldest tree. And on top: a picnic spread that smelled like fresh bread and summer air.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Tommy,” you breathed.

He just grinned and gestured like a showman. “Your table, my lady.”

You spent the afternoon wrapped in warmth and quiet, sharing crusty bread and soft cheese, swapping bites of fruit and feeding each other with your fingers like teenagers. You laughed more than you had in weeks — full-bodied, breathless laughter. He made jokes about your snorting when you giggled, and you teased him about the way he always over-packed for picnics. The sun filtered through the trees like honey, and for a few hours, it felt like there was no danger outside Jackson’s walls. No infected. No old ghosts. Just this.

When the food was mostly gone and your limbs were stretched out across the quilt, your head in Tommy’s lap, he reached into the grass and plucked a small pink wildflower.

With careful fingers, he folded and twisted it — slow, patient, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in focus — until the stem formed a loop and the petals sat like a tiny crown. You watched, smiling.

“Is that… a ring?” you asked, amused.

He nodded proudly and slid it onto your ring finger. “Damn right it is.”

You laughed, lifting your hand to admire the delicate thing. “It’s gonna wilt in an hour.”

He shrugged. “Still pretty.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss him softly.

But when you pulled back, something in his expression shifted. His eyes weren’t playful anymore — they were warm, steady, serious.

“I mean it,” he said.

Your brows drew together, confused. “You… mean what?”

“The ring,” he said, nodding to your hand. “I know you said marriage wasn’t for you. And I get it. We’ve been through hell. You don’t need a ceremony to prove what we have. We already built a life, raised our girls, made a home. I know that.”

You watched him, heart stuttering.

“But I want you to know,” he went on, voice thick now, “that I still wanna marry you. I do. Not because I need some label. But because I wanna give you everythin’. Every part of me. You’ve had my heart since the first time I met you pickin’ up those crates and attackin’ me with that smart mouth and broken heart. And now? You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved. Two beautiful girls. A life I never imagined havin’. A love that brought me back to myself.”

You swallowed, tears already burning your eyes.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing under your eye. “We’re already a family. But I want the whole thing. I want to say vows to you, even if it’s just us and the girls and Joel standing there with a bouquet he stole from someone’s porch.”

You laughed through a watery breath.

“I want to wake up every day knowin’ you chose me. That I get to choose you back. I want to call you my wife. Not because it changes what we have— but because it honors it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe past the weight of it. The love of it.

So you nodded, fiercely, a whispered “Yes” tumbling out like a prayer.

He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your soul, hands cradling your face like you were something holy. And for the first time in your life, the idea of marriage didn’t scare you. It felt like coming home.

The ceremony was small, held beneath the same willow tree that shaded your picnic — the one where Tommy had folded the flower ring months ago. Wildflowers framed the aisle, and the girls wore blossoms pinned into their hair, petals soft against their curls. Joel stood by Tommy’s side, wearing his best jacket and a proud smile that cracked his gruff exterior. A couple of Tommy’s patrol friends watched from the edge, quiet witnesses to this love he’d built from broken pieces.

Tommy stared at you as you walked up the makeshift aisle — your dress simple, your eyes full of everything that brought you to this moment. He swallowed hard, voice catching when he finally whispered, “I do.” And you knew in that instant that it wasn’t ceremony he wanted, but this promise — to be your husband, to share every dawn and dusk and messy day and quiet night.

Afterward, they all gathered in the yard. The girls danced around in twirling circles, giggling as petals fell like confetti. Joel offered tiny pats on Tommy’s back, his eyes glistening. You laughed with your husband, feeling like the center of a world filled with everything you’d ever needed.

And then a month later he came through the door one afternoon, boots dusty and jacket slung over his arm, with a slow smile that made your heart leap.

“What is it?” you asked, catching the gleam in his eyes.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small wooden box — weathered, with carved edges that looked handwhittled.

“Open it,” he said softly.

Your fingers trembled as you opened the lid. Inside lay a ring: a single diamond set in a rustic, weathered gold band, tinged with rust in all the right places. It was nothing fancy — but everything.

He watched you, hopeful and proud.

“I found it,” he said. “On a patrol. In an abandoned backpack. Thought it belonged with us.”

You gasped, tears pooling in your eyes. You slid the ring onto your finger. It fit so perfectly, as though it were made for you.

Tommy closed the box and gently lifted your hand. “Years ago, I thought I’d never get a chance for something like this. But here we are.”

He took a steady breath, eyes shining with mischief and dreams.

“Now…” he began, dropping his voice to a goofy, hopeful pitch, “how about a son to torment my two little angels?”

The weight of that question, the hope and love behind it — your heart soared.

You laughed, loud and joyful, brushing a kiss across his cheek. “Absolutely not.”

He feigned shock, placing a hand over his chest. “For real?”

“Absolutely not,” you repeated, wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks. “I’m good with my girls.”

He laughed with you, pulling you close until the ring caught the sunlight and your family felt impossibly, gloriously perfect.

In that moment — with the diamond glinting, the girls safe and hanging out with their uncle Joel for the day — you trusted them to be away now — you felt impossibly happy. Everything impossibly perfect.

He kissed you softly, as if he was remembering every curve, every line. As if he hadn’t done it a million times before. One of his hands reached for the back of your head, fingers curling in the the hairs at the nape of your neck. His other hand wrapped around you waist — pulling you into his lap.

You pulled away, looking down into his hazed over eyes while his hand explored every part of you body. Running his fingers up the slit in your dress and curling around the soft cotton of the underwear hugging your hips.

“Tommy, I am not giving you a son.” You huffed. But your body betrayed you as your hips rolled into his. Your panties already starting to soak through as his thumb rubbed the outside of the fabric with a delicate touch.

“Oh yeah?” He murmured, leaning into the crook of your neck and leaving a trail of his hot breath. His free hand cupped your breast and grazed across the peak of you nipple that was poking through the soft silk of your sundress.

Your breath hitched, and your hips started chasing his thumb that was still slowly grazing your covered folds. He sucked at the soft skin on your neck, biting slighting, before leaving a soft kiss as if it were an apology.

Tommy pulled your underwear to the side, a groan leaving his mouth when feeling how wet you truly were. His thumb traced harsh circled around you clit causing your breath to stutter — electric shocks shooting down your spine. His pointer finger lightly tapped on the outside of your begging entrance — wet strings of your need coiling tightly around his finger each time he pulled it back.

“Tommy, I— I’m serious.” You huffed as he finally pushed two fingers through your begging walls. Groaning at the way you take them so easily. His pace started achingly slow, curling when he’s burried deep — putting just the right amount of pressure against you clit with his palm — before pulling them out so slow it made your legs tremble.

“Okay, baby.” He mutters, pulling the straps of your dress down and revealing the plump swell of your breasts. His tongue licks a long stripe over the peak of your swollen bud, taking it between his teeth and sucking harshly. A whimper escapes your lips as your hips roll into his fingers, begging for more friction. Tommy gives you exactly what you body is asking for — he always does.

His paces quickens, a wet squelch sound filling the air each time he pushes his fingers through again. Your dress is pooled around your waist, legs still stradeling him. Your fingers are pulling at the curls of his hair, forcing him closer to your chest as his tongue explores every curve of your plump breasts. He shares attention to each, sucking and bitng — a certain heat pools deep in your stomach.

He leans away, pulling from your swollen nipple with a loud pop. Admiring how wet and red they are. How achingly painful they must feel. His palm now covered in your juices, the denim of his jeans damp where your thighs cradle his.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so wet." He groans. "Don’t worry… gonna fuck that pussy nice and good.” The dirty words make you clench around him. “Gonna cum with just my fingers, huh?”

You nod harshly, hands grasping his knees as you lean back — putting all your wight on your arms. You move you legs — knees bend and feet rested at his hips — to open yourself up more. Invite his fingers deeper. Tommy pushes your dress higher to get a better sight — wanting to watch the mess you’re about to make.

His thumb grazes over your clit as his fingers continue the harsh rhythm. Your legs tremble as the heat threatens to spill over like a dam about to break. You look away, flustered and riding a type of high even drugs couldn’t make you feel. Tommy grabs your jaw with his hand, forcing you to look at him.

“Look at me while you cum on my fingers, baby.” You moaned as he dipped a third finger inside of you, curving into the spongy part that sends shockwaves throughout your entire body. Your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. He’s knuckles deep, massaging the sweet spot that aches for him. You’re so close he can feel it — in the way you squeeze your thighs together. He slowly slides a hand up your thigh and pushes them apart as you writhe underneath his gaze.

You nails claw into his knees and your toes curl painfully tight. “That’s a good girl. Cum for me.” And the heat finally spills over, the dam finally breaking. You scream his name as you cum hard into his palm, his thrusts never slowing. Body convulsing as you throw your head back and make a mess of his fingers. When you’re finally nothing but whimpers and a shaking body, he leans down and plants soft kisses on the inside of your thighs.

“Take off your clothes. Wanna see all of you.” He whispers. And you see how damp his jeans are from you when you finally lift yourself from his body. It’d be embarrassing if you haven’t done this with him a million times before. He always knew how to get you so high that you brain clouds and your eyes haze over and then cradle you as you body convulses under his touch.

You slip down your dress slow, putting on a little show as he sits manspread and watching. Looking your body up and down and licking his lips as if you were a meal to be served. Next goes your panties, all worn and sticky, sliding slowly down your legs until you kick them to the side to be forgotten.

He spreads himself wider, waiting for you to come crawling back into his lap, but instead you fall slowly to your knees and bring your face close to the buldge pressing against the demin. He raises an eyebrow and smirks as you pull the zipper down with you teeth.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t have to do this.” He groans even though he’s already undoing his button and sliding his jeans and boxers down just enough to reveal himself. He knows this is something you never do — you don’t like the way it makes your throat feel and honestly you thought you were never good at it even though he tells you otherwise. But you’re feeling nice today. You want to be the one to please him, especially after how hard he made you cum just now.

You just nod — letting him know its okay — as you lick a long stripe over the slit of his tip. He draws in a shaky breath and pushes your hair behind your ear.

You take in his tip, never breaking his eye contact, and watch the way the brown of his eyes almost disappear with how wide his pupils dialate.

He wraps your hair into a make shift ponytail and lightly pushes your head down until your taking him all in — gaging around him, tears threatening to spill before he tugs your hair back — hollowing your cheeks as he slowly leaves your mouth.

Your lips stay wrapped around his tip, sucking in and pulling away with a pop just to bob your head back down once more.

“Fuck.” He moans, hips now thrusting into your hot and wet throat. Spit dripples down your chin, down his length, and pools at the coiled hair just below his shaft. “God, you look so pretty with you mouth wrapped around me. Could look at it all day.”

You hymm at the words and feel him twitch against your tongue. Your hands wrap around his shaft and pull him deeper into your mouth till he’s up against the back of your throat.

“Shit.” He says as he pulls your hair, making your mouth let him go with a pop. You watch as some beads of cum dripple down the side of his length before looking up at him with a smirk.

Your lips are swollen and your eyes are bloodshot. You know you probably look fucked out of your mind as some drool falls out of the side of you mouth.

His breath is heavy as he tries to steady himself, stop himself from just finishing at the sight of you. But You’re too needy for him. Wetness already drenching your thighs just from sucking his dick. You climb into his lap and hover over his groin.

Hi reaction is immediate and primal. Hand gripping the soft flesh of your ass and he rubs his tip between your folds. You kiss him in a way that’s all teeth and tongue and begging. Hands wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly close. He devours you as his kisses trail from your lips, to your chin, to the curve of your neck until his eyes meet just where his tip and your clit meet — rubbing soft circles over it. You move your hips slightly — enough to where his dick meets your entrance.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He groans as he thrusts into you hard and unforgiving. A broken moan escapes your lips when you feel they way he stretches your walls to his size. A feeling you’ll never get used to. He fills you completely, opening you up and giving you exactly what you need. It’s almost too much — the way he thrusts into you hot and heavy like it’s the last thing he’ll do.

His hands grasp you hips tightly, pulling you down into him until the space between you is minimal. Watching the way he disappears completely inside of you. Deep and unrelenting. Sparks shoot down your spine as his mouth meets yours with a lazy kiss — tongues flicking against lips and teeth nibbling sharply when his thrusts continue in a punishing motion.

“Fuck, gonna ruin me.” He moans into your mouth, fingers digging into your hips so harshly you think it might leave bruises. All you can do it whimper against his lips, nails digging deep into his shoulders to steady yourself. The sound of the couch squeaking under your bodies makes it more intoxicating.

You pull back and cradle his face, mouth falling into a frown at how painfully he’s pleasing you. You wouldn’t want it any other way. His brown eyes meet yours full of lust, full of love, full of devotion. You can’t believe this is the man you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. The man who gifted you with two beautiful girls. Can’t believe how lucky you are and how far you’ve come. The diamond ring still gleaming against the light, exactly where it belongs.

His head shoots back against the couch when you take control, stopping himself from thrusting into you. You grind your hips achingly slow against his. Sitting in his lap as his dick is burried deep inside of you. You lick a loing stripe against the pulse of his kneck before sucking at it slightly.

You move your legs up and down, bouncing back into him each time and rolling your hips back up. “Tommy, you feel so good.”

"Yeah? Just like that, baby. You're doin' so good f'me." He mutters back.

Tommys hands cradly your back, pulling you to his chest, before trailing them down to the curve of your ass. His fingers diggling into the plump skin, face burried in your neck. The way his hot breath feels against yours. The friction makes you dizzy and the heat returns. Shocks shoot up your spine. You feel electric.

You tilt your hips, taking him in deeper as his body tenses. He meets your rhythm with his own — hips thrusting into you as you’re bouncing back down. He has you screaming his name at this point when he starts pulling your hair back to look him in the eyes.

“Fuck, sweetheart, ‘m bout to cum.” He groans, crashing his lips back into yours in one final movement. His thrusts falter and his fingers curled into your hair pull harder, causing your neck to bend and back to arch painfully.

He pushes you down — back now against the couch, legs now wrapped around his hips, pulling him in deeper. His curls cling to the sweat against his forhead as he grips your thighs tighter.

“Takin’ me so well.” He moans as his free hand pushes your hair back from your forhead. “Fuck— alright. Where you want it?” He asks as his legs begin to shake.

“Tommy—” You groan, clenching around him — begging him to stay burried deep inside. “Want you to come inside me. Please.”

You tilt your hips to roll against him, and he takes in a sharp inhale and smirks before looking you in the eyes. “Thought you didn’t want a son?”

“Fuck— Tommy just do it.” You beg as your legs start to shake around his waste. His fingers run down your belly until they meet your clit and begin to rub harshly.

“That’s it baby. Come for me.” And that’s enough to make the heat spill from you all over again. You clench harshly around him, digging your nails into his forearms as his pace quickens. The sound of skin slapping skin filling the air. “mmm— that's my girl.”

His hips snap into yours one last time before he releases hot white strands deep against your walls. His body shudders against yours as he collapses back into you with a huff. You stay like that for a while — sweaty bodies entangled on the couch.

Finally, he pulls back and brushes your hair behind your ears. He kisses your temple, then your cheek. “God you’re so beautiful.” He mutters before kissing your lips.

You know this is all you could have ever asked for and in this moment you knew life couldn’t be any better.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna @ijustrepost @cakesandtom @lovelyc @vampiredoggies-blog @hjzghi-blog

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel smut #joel x reader #tlou #pedro pascal #joel #joel the last of us #fanfic #joel miller x reader #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller smut #tommy miller x reader #tommy tlou #tommy miller #tommy miller x you

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filthyjoelslvr · 8 days ago

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i love you

omg stawp because i will kiss you

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filthyjoelslvr · 9 days ago

Text

The Other Woman (3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 4

Content: jackson!tommy x reader; jackson!joel x reader (previous chapter)

Synop: Tommy isn't the same after you told him about you and Joel. His heads hung low, his smile falters, his eyes scream of the pain he feels. You keep running into him and each time breaks you a little more than the last.

Then, Joel tells his ex wife of the affair. And the whole town knows. They stare, they whisper, and Tommy can barely stand it.

Warnings: pinv, fingering, tommy spits in your mouth, tells reader i hate you during sex?, sad tommy, guilty joel, physical fighting (mentions blood), very small mention of SA (past), death of mother, prob forgetting some

Word Count: 10K!

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: guys i hope you like this one!! i was in such a stump and then got a random burst of inspiration so i hope i did a good job blending it all together. i literally wanna turn this whole series into a chapter book!!! but i made this so long so another part is coming soon im so sorry yall, ik ik i need to chill. but..... should you have tommy's babies ???? AHH DONT COME FOR ME IM INTO THAT

It had been twenty-three days since you last spoke to Tommy.

Not that you were counting, but every night bled into the next without him, and each morning you woke up hoping the ache would be duller than the day before. It wasn’t.

The last time you saw him — really saw him — was the night everything fell apart. The night he looked at you like he didn’t know who you were. Technically, he never asked you to be his girlfriend, not in those exact words, but you didn’t need him to. You knew it. Felt it in every look, every late-night visit, every time he held you like the world might end before morning. You were his. And he was yours.

But now… now you were nothing.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did. You never meant to hurt him, never wanted to be the cause of that devastation you saw in his eyes that day. The memory of it still clawed at your insides.

You heard the footsteps before the knock — heavy, sure, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

When you opened the door, there he was. Tommy. Sunburned cheeks, wind-worn jacket, smile so big it made your chest ache. “Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

You had launched into his arms. Laughed. Let him spin you like a girl who hadn’t done the unthinkable. You buried yourself in him because you didn’t know how to be anywhere else. Because you were scared.

You tried to tell him. Tried to say the words. But he kissed you — kissed you like nothing had changed. And you let him. You let him love you, worship you, fall deeper when you knew the truth would tear him apart.

And when he finally said I love you, you broke. You couldn’t hold it anymore.

“Tommy, I slept with Joel.”

You watched him come undone in real time. Disbelief. Rage. Pain. That gut-wrenching, final line: "Stay the fuck away from me. We're done."

And then the door slammed, and you felt yourself unravel.

Now, three weeks later, you saw him again for the first time.

You hadn’t planned to be in town, but someone had asked for help dropping off supplies. Just some cloth and thread. It was supposed to be a quiet errand — quick. Anonymous.

But then you saw him.

Tommy walked through the square, not ten feet from you. And the sight of him made your stomach flip and your eyes sting.

He looked terrible.

Not rugged or tired. Wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes hollow. Posture slumped like the world weighed heavier than usual. Tommy, who used to light up Jackson just by passing through, didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t speak. He just walked — silent and angry and broken.

Then he looked up. Just for a second.

Your eyes locked.

It was like being struck. His face flickered — just barely — before he looked away again, fast. Like you were something painful to behold. Like remembering you hurt worse than forgetting.

You didn’t move. Didn’t follow. You couldn’t.

You’d seen the damage. You saw what you did. How far he’d fallen from the man who used to dance with you in the kitchen just to hear you laugh.

You broke him.

So you let him go. Again.

You turned away, heart hammering, eyes blurry, breath shallow.

You wanted to run after him. To explain. To beg. But that wasn’t love — not anymore. Love, real love, was giving someone what they needed. And right now? Tommy needed space. Distance. Time.

Even if it killed you to give it. Even if he never let you close again.

Because if he needed time to hate you before he could begin to understand you, then that’s what you’d give him.

Even if it meant losing him forever.

The first time you ran into Tommy again after that morning in the square, it was by accident. You turned a corner near the stables, arms full of fabric bundles, and nearly collided with him.

He stopped. Looked at you.

Just for a second.

And then he walked around you like you weren’t even there.

It knocked the breath from your lungs. You stood there, holding that stupid cloth to your chest like it might keep you from falling apart.

After that, it kept happening.

At the gate post. By the greenhouse. Outside the mess hall. Always unplanned. Always painful.

And always the same.

He’d glance at you, just once — eyes heavy with something that looked like grief — and then look away, jaw clenched, chest rising a little faster. Sometimes he’d adjust his jacket, or rub at his mouth like he could scrub the memory of you off his lips.

Each time you saw him, he looked a little worse.

Like he was unraveling slowly. Skin paler. Beard uneven. His usual spark — gone. Tommy had always been a light in Jackson. He made people laugh. Made things feel easier just by being around.

But now? Now he barely spoke. He avoided crowds. Didn’t show up to half the community meetings he used to help run. And when he did, he’d sit in the back with a far-off look in his eyes like his body was present, but nothing else was.

It was like he couldn’t stand to be in a world where you also existed.

And still, you said nothing.

You wanted to run to him. To beg. To explain it all again. But you stayed quiet. You gave him the distance he so clearly needed, even when it felt like it was killing you a little more each day.

Sometimes you’d go to the trade stalls to stay busy. Sort items. Help with repairs. Anything to get out of your own head.

That’s where you’d see Joel.

Not often. Just enough to notice.

He never stayed long — always stopping by for parts or ammo, sometimes to drop off gear from a patrol. When he saw you, he’d nod once. Give you a polite hey or mornin'.

Nothing else.

No private talks. No apologies. No pressure.

He had stopped coming to see you, just like you asked.

And the silence between the two of you felt like a second kind of punishment. A colder one. Because even though Joel had been the cause of it all, he wasn’t the one looking at you like you’d destroyed him.

That was Tommy.

And somehow, seeing the pain still written across his face every time he caught your presence — like your shadow alone was enough to make him sick — it hurt worse than anything you could have imagined.

Because you were the one who did that to him.

And you didn’t know if you’d ever get the chance to make it right.

The silence didn’t get easier.

If anything, the more time passed, the heavier it got. It filled the corners of your house like smoke. Settled into your sheets. Clung to your skin.

Some nights, it felt unbearable. So you started writing.

Not because you expected him to read it. Not because you thought it would fix anything. But because keeping it all inside was rotting you from the inside out.

The first letter was messy — half tears, half ink. You didn’t even bother starting it with his name. Just dove straight in. I think about you all the time. I keep seeing you in crowds. Sometimes I think I hear your laugh and then remember you haven’t laughed in weeks.

You didn’t mean to keep going, but you did. The words kept spilling out. Page after page. You wrote about the little things — how you still caught yourself reaching for his favorite mug when you made tea. How you didn’t listen to music anymore because everything reminded you of that night he danced with you at the town square. How you couldn’t stop replaying the sound of his voice when he said, Stay the fuck away from me.

You folded that one and tucked it into your dresser drawer. Told yourself you’d burn it later.

But you didn’t.

You kept writing.

A second letter. A third. A tenth.

Some were long, aching pages of apology. Others were just fragments. You looked tired today. I saw you touch your ribs — did you get hurt? You smiled at someone. I was both relieved and sick over it.

You never sent them. Never would.

But writing them was the only way to keep yourself from going to him.

Because the truth was, every time you saw Tommy — every time he looked at you and then looked away — it felt like losing him all over again. The glances were killing you more than outright silence ever could. Like he still felt something, but it hurt too much to let it show.

You knew that look. You wore the same one when you were begging for Joel's love.

So you wrote. Because writing didn’t cost him anything.

You gave him his space, his time, his absence. Even though it made you ache. Even though you missed him so much it sometimes felt like you couldn’t breathe.

And still, he didn’t speak to you.

Which meant you were alone. So you wrote. Even if the only one who would ever read the letters was you.

The bell above the trade stalls door jingled, breaking the quiet rhythm of your work.

You didn’t even look up at first. Most people came in for standard barters — thread, blankets, maybe a new pair of gloves. But something in your chest tightened before you even saw Joel because you knew today you'd talk to him.

He hesitated in the doorway, like he was unsure if he should even step inside. Then, with that familiar heavy gait, he walked toward one of the side shelves, not looking at you.

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“…Hey,” you said, voice low but steady.

His head snapped up like you'd thrown a rock at him. “What?”

You stepped out from behind the counter slowly. “I was... wondering how you’ve been.”

He blinked at you, completely thrown. “You told me to stay the hell away from you.”

“I know,” you said softly, glancing down. “I meant it, at the time. But… I also meant what I said back then — that you needed to work on yourself.”

He frowned, jaw tight, arms crossing. “So what’s this? Curiosity check-in?”

You offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. Just figured if we were gonna keep running into each other, we didn’t have to pretend the other didn’t exist.”

Joel snorted under his breath, leaning a little against the shelf. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to start a damn conversation, I’ll tell you that much.”

You watched him carefully. “So… how have you been? Really?”

He scratched his beard, eyes narrowed like the question was somehow offensive. Then he exhaled, slower this time. “Better. Some days. Worse on others. But I’ve been tryin' to get my shit together.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded, grumbling like the words hurt to say. “Ain’t drinkin’ as much. Talked to people about helpin’ out more on the patrol rotation. Saw a counselor a few times, if you can believe that.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Didn’t talk much at first, but… I’m listenin’ now. Tryin’ to understand why I did the things I did. Why I kept goin’ back to pain like it was comfort.”

You studied his face, and for the first time since all this began, he looked almost… vulnerable. Not proud, not defensive — just tired and trying.

And it hit you, suddenly, how much further behind you were.

“I’m happy for you,” you said. “I really am.”

He tilted his head. “And you? You look like hell, no offense.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes even though they weren’t crying. “That obvious, huh?”

Joel’s face softened slightly. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

You hesitated, and when you answered, your voice was small. “I’m not. Not really. I miss Tommy so bad it makes me sick.”

His expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t speak, so you kept going.

“I told him. About everything. The night he came home. He told me he loved me and I—” your breath caught. “I told him what happened. With you.”

Joel’s face fell. “And?”

“He walked out. Said we were done. That he doesn't want to see me again.”

Joel looked away. “Yeah… I figured.”

You furrowed your brow. “What do you mean?”

He took a breath through his nose like he was bracing for something. “Tommy came to my house that night.”

You stared at him. “He what?”

“Stormed in like a damn fire. Said he wanted to look me in the eye before he broke my nose.”

Your breath caught.

Joel gave a dry, humorless laugh. “And he did. Couple times.”

“Joel…”

“I didn’t stop him,” he said simply. “Didn’t raise a hand. Just let him. Took everything he gave me.”

“Jesus…”

Joel nodded. “Threw me into a wall. Told me I broke the only good thing in his life. Asked me how long I’d been watchin’ him like a damn vulture, waitin’ for him to turn his back so I could crawl into bed with his girl.”

You felt like you might be sick.

“I tried to tell him it wasn’t like that,” Joel continued. “That it wasn’t planned. But he didn’t want to hear it. And truth is, he had every right not to.”

You pressed a hand to your stomach. “I didn’t know he— God, Joel."

Joel shrugged. “He said what he needed to with his fists. We haven’t talked since. Tommy is scary as hell when he wants to be.”

The silence hung thick between you, full of shame and pain and words neither of you could take back. You remembered that night you told the lie about the guy harassing you — how Tommy's expression turned unrecognizable. You know now Tommy meant it when he said he could find the guy.

Joel looked at you again, more carefully now. “You still care about him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

He nodded once, solemn. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he ain’t made of stone. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have shown up at my door.”

Your eyes welled, and this time, you didn’t stop the tears. “I think I already lost him.”

Joel shook his head. “I really am sorry."

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. The two of you stood there for a while, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the shop, the weight of everything still hovering — but maybe just a little lighter than before.

Joel finally turned to leave, then paused at the door. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’m trying,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then stepped out, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation on something that wasn’t quite closure — but maybe something close.

You didn’t want him.

Not in the aching, dizzy way that once made you forget what was right and wrong. Not in the sleepless, guilt-laced quiet after you let him crawl into your bed like a ghost begging to be remembered. That part of your story was over. Done. You weren’t his. Not anymore.

But watching Joel now — steady-voiced, clearer-eyed, softer somehow — still felt like swallowing glass.

Because he looked like someone learning to live. And you? You were still just surviving.

It wasn’t envy, not quite. Just a strange, heavy sorrow. Like watching a storm break over someone else’s house while you’re still knee-deep in floodwater.

You were proud of him. You were. Even if it felt like a betrayal to admit that out loud. Because Joel was trying. For once, he wasn’t running from the damage — he was naming it. Owning it. Carrying it like it was his to hold. And maybe that’s what made it harder: he was finally becoming the man he should’ve been before he met you.

But the part that hurt most didn’t live between you and him anymore.

It lived in the space between two brothers.

You hadn’t meant to tear them apart. You didn’t want that. God, you never wanted that. But when Joel told you — quietly, without flinching — about the fight, your stomach dropped so fast you thought you’d be sick.

Tommy had come to his door with all the fury a broken heart could hold. No words. No warning. Just fists.

And Joel had let him. Didn’t block, didn’t swing, didn’t shout.

He just took it.

Because he knew what he did. What you both did.

But knowing it doesn’t make it easier to live with. It doesn’t unmake the silence that now stretches between them like a scar across the years they’d built.

You’d already lost Tommy.

But knowing you might’ve helped him lose Joel too — that settled differently. A dull, throbbing grief you couldn’t outrun. You had touched something sacred, and you hadn’t been careful. And now they both carried that weight in their own quiet ways.

Joel with his guilt.

Tommy with his silence.

And you… with both.

You watched the wind roll through the trees above you, aching in your chest like you’d been hollowed out.

You didn’t want Joel. You never would again. But you wanted them to find each other. Somehow. Someday.

Even if it meant you never stood between them again.

Tommy,

I saw you again yesterday.

You didn’t say anything. You never do. Just that same half-second glance before your eyes drop like you’re afraid of catching something from me. Like I’m the infection now. And maybe I am.

I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry in a way that mattered. I wish I could hand you my heart in pieces and let you see how much of it still belongs to you. Even now. Especially now.

You looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep can fix, but the kind that lives in your bones. I used to know how to make you laugh. Now I can’t even make you look at me without flinching.

It guts me, Tommy. Not just what I did. But what it did to you.

And about Joel.

I never meant for you two to stop speaking. I never meant to wedge myself between blood. I didn’t think. I didn’t protect you. I didn’t protect either of you.

And the worst part? You were both trying to love me in your own broken ways.

I still can’t breathe when I think about that night. You holding me like I was something soft. Something yours. And I was. God, I was. Even if I didn’t know how to show it right. Even if I let the wrong person tell me who I was and who I didn’t deserve.

You told me you loved me. I never said it back.

Not because I didn’t mean it.

Because I meant it too much.

And now you won’t even let me get close enough to say your name.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the courage to hand it to you.

But I had to write it.

Because pretending I don’t miss you isn’t working anymore.

Love always

Thanksgiving in Jackson wasn’t about turkey or cranberry sauce — not really. Not anymore.

There hadn’t been a turkey in years. Probably never would be again. The food had changed, stripped down to what the community could grow, trade, or salvage. Beans, rabbit, maybe dried cornbread if they were lucky. But it wasn’t about tradition — it was about normalcy. Or the illusion of it. About carving out a moment that felt familiar before the world lost its shape.

The whole town pitched in — tables made from repurposed wood dragged into the square, covered with mismatched cloths and cracked ceramic dishes. A makeshift fire pit burned low in the center, its scent curling into the air, a poor man’s incense for the ghosts of better holidays.

You almost didn’t come.

You’d stood by the door for a long time with your coat half on, debating. But in the end, the thought of free food — and a few hours outside of your own damn thoughts — pushed you out the door. You told yourself you’d stay thirty minutes. Just enough to show your face, eat something, maybe even smile like your bones weren’t aching with guilt.

But the second you stepped into the crowd, you knew something was wrong.

The air was wrong.

Too still. Too sharp. The way it gets before a thunderstorm or a fight.

People were looking at you. Not glancing — staring. Some subtly. Others, not at all. A few whispered to each other, heads bowed close like conspirators at a wake. Their eyes flicked up every few seconds, straight at you, as if you’d grown horns or started bleeding from the mouth.

You tried to convince yourself it was in your head. You hadn’t been around this many people in weeks. Of course it felt overwhelming. Of course everything felt too much.

But then it kept happening.

Someone who normally smiled at you — a woman you’d traded flour with two weeks ago — turned her head sharply when you passed. Wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

A man you used to laugh with at the greenhouse suddenly got real interested in a plate of carrots.

By the time you reached the food table, your chest felt like it had been filled with wet cement. Your hands were shaking. Your skin hot and cold all at once. The walls of the square seemed to close in, every table too close, every whisper sharpened like glass.

“…heard it was Joel…”

“…Tommy’s girl, wasn’t she?”

“…no wonder he looks like hell…”

You weren’t sure if you were going to faint or vomit.

And just as you turned to leave — just as you told yourself forget it, just go home — a hand gripped your arm and tugged you sideways into the alley behind the mess tent.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the cool stone of a wall and Joel Miller was standing in front of you, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

His voice was low, urgent. “You okay?”

You blinked at him, disoriented. “What—? What are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same damn thing,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You swallowed hard. “People are… looking at me. Talking. Joel, what’s going on?”

He shifted, jaw working. You could see it — that hesitance. That frustration.

“I told her,” he said finally. “My ex-wife. ’Bout us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I told her. Sat down and told her the truth. ’Bout me and you. About what I did.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came.

Joel continued, voice rough, like gravel dragged over pavement. “Didn’t expect her to forgive me. Sure as hell didn’t think she’d tell the whole damn town. But… she fuckin’ did.”

The words crashed over you like cold water.

Everyone knows.

The whispers. The stares.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, feeling sick. “God.”

“She said people had a right to know,” Joel muttered. “Don’t know why she thinks it’s their business but it’s not like I could’ve stopped her. Didn’t know she was gonna do that.”

You backed against the wall, head swimming. “She’s not wrong. She— she has every right to be angry.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then you whispered, “But if they’re looking at me like this… then what about Tommy?”

Joel’s expression tensed.

Your eyes burned. “He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s being looked at like he’s broken, like he’s the idiot who got played—”

“Hey.” Joel took a step closer, softer now. “I know. Believe me. I know.”

And just as you were about to say something else — to ask what Joel had seen, if Tommy had said anything — someone stumbled into the alley behind you.

Fast. Breathing hard. Gasping like he’d run the whole town.

You turned sharply. And there he was.

Tommy.

He didn’t see you at first. His hands were on top of his head, fingers laced as he paced two frantic steps forward, then back, trying to slow the breath rattling out of his lungs.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, voice low and wrecked. “What the fuck. Fuck." He put his hand across his heart as if to slow its beat. He looked like he was having a panic attack.

You froze. Joel did too.

He looked like panic made flesh — red-faced, eyes wide, shoulders shaking. His clothes were damp with sweat despite the chill, curls stuck to his forehead, his chest rising and falling like he’d outrun his own thoughts.

And then — he turned.

His eyes landed on Joel first. Then you.

His whole body went still. And the silence that followed was sharper than any scream.

At first, he just stared. Then — he laughed.

But it wasn’t the kind of laugh you remembered. Not the soft, throaty one he used when he was teasing you in the garden, or that boyish chuckle when you surprised him with a joke. This laugh was sharp, broken at the edges. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like something inside him finally cracked.

He kept laughing — once, then again, a breathless huff that collapsed into a sniffle. Like he was going crazy. He dragged a hand across his face, but his eyes never left the two of you.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ joking,” he said, voice hoarse.

He took a shaky step closer. His eyes were bloodshot, wide and dark like they were drowning in everything unsaid.

“Back here?” His voice trembled, then rose. “Hidin' back here, together, while the whole goddamn town is whisperin' about us?”

“Tommy—” you stepped forward, but he flinched.

“Don’t.” He pointed at you, then Joel. “Don’t do that thing where you act like it’s nothin'.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. “You two back here doin' — what? Fuckin' again? Thought you’d sneak off for another round while they’re out there lookin’ at me like I’m a fuckin’ stray dog that got kicked in the ribs?”

Joel stepped forward too, hands half-raised in surrender. “It’s not like that, Tommy. We were just talkin’, I swear—”

“Yeah?” Tommy barked. “Just talkin’? Like last time? Or the time before that?”

“It’s not what you think—” you tried again.

“It’s exactly what I think!” he shouted, voice cracking. “’Cause I know what it looks like. I know what people are sayin’. Do you have any idea how many people came up to me today, eyes all soft and sorry, like I just got left at the fuckin’ altar?”

You felt it then — a deep twist of guilt in your gut. His pain wasn’t subtle. It was all over him, in the way his arms stayed stiff at his sides, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was trying not to break right there in front of you.

“They’re lookin’ at me like I’m pathetic,” he spat. “Like I’m too stupid to know what’s good for me. And you two—” his voice caught, and he finally blinked away the first tear that slipped free, “—you’re just back here. Hidin'. Doin' whatever the fuck this is.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Joel said, voice low.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him. “You’re the last person I want to hear from.”

Joel fell silent.

You stepped forward again, slower this time, heart in your throat. “Tommy, please. Just listen. I didn’t know she was gonna tell anyone. I didn’t want this—”

“You did it though,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And now the whole town knows. And I get to be the fuckin’ punchline.”

His face crumpled, a fresh wave of hurt surfacing just beneath the surface — but he swallowed it back down. Didn’t let it rise. He didn’t yell again. Didn’t cry. He just looked at you like you were someone he didn’t recognize anymore.

And then he turned.

You reached for him without thinking. “Tommy—”

But he stepped out of your grasp. “Don’t,” he said, not angry anymore — just tired. “Just… don’t.”

And he walked away.

Not fast. Not storming. Just… left.

And it hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You stood frozen for a moment after Tommy disappeared into the crowd — like if you stayed still enough, maybe time would reverse itself, maybe he’d come back. But he didn’t.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Even the wind seemed to hush around you, like the whole world had heard what just happened.

Joel exhaled slowly beside you, his arms hanging limp, eyes downcast. “Well,” he muttered, voice rough and low, “that went to hell real fuckin’ fast.”

You didn’t answer.

Your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You could still see the look in Tommy’s eyes — disbelief, betrayal, something splintered and sharp, like it physically hurt him to look at you. You hated it. Hated knowing you put that expression on his face.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything to her,” Joel added, more to himself than you. “I knew she’d be pissed, but I didn’t think she’d… tell the whole goddamn town.”

“She had a right to be angry,” you murmured. “We hurt her, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I was ready to deal with her bein’ angry. Not every fuckin’ person in this settlement looking at us like we pissed in the water supply.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “You alright?”

You shook your head. “No.”

And for once, he didn’t press. Didn’t try to smooth it over. He just nodded.

“I know you said you were working on yourself,” you said, your voice quiet and thick. “And I believe that. But I’m not… I’m not okay, Joel. I haven’t been okay since that night. Since I lost him.”

He looked away. You could see the guilt set heavy on his shoulders.

“I'm lost,” you admitted, eyes stinging. “And now… now he thinks I’m still sneaking around with you, after everything. After I tried so hard to give him the space to heal.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, scowling at the dirt. “He’ll calm down.”

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry. “I don’t.”

You both stood there in the quiet, the sounds of the Thanksgiving celebration still echoing faintly beyond the building — laughter, music, a child yelling for another piece of bread. It all felt miles away.

Joel finally spoke, gravel in his throat. “I didn’t wanna make things worse for you. I know what people are sayin’. I know what it looks like.”

You turned to him, heart aching. “I don’t care what it looks like for me. I care what it looks like for him. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s the one people are whispering about. Staring at.”

Joel didn’t respond.

You crossed your arms over your chest, squeezing them tight. “He looked like he was about to fall apart. He was—he was running, Joel. From them. From all of it.”

Joel’s eyes closed for a beat. “I didn’t think he’d take it this hard.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You should’ve. We both should’ve.”

Another long silence.

“I deserve it,” Joel said finally. “The looks. The talk. Whatever comes.”

You nodded, a bitter smile tugging at your mouth. “Maybe we both do.”

But even as you said it, your stomach twisted with something else — not guilt, exactly. Not shame. Something softer, sadder. Regret.

Because maybe you did deserve the judgment. But Tommy didn’t. He just loved someone he thought he could trust.

And now?

Now he was alone in it. And you didn’t know how to fix that.

Tommy,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.

Maybe I’ll leave it in a drawer with the others until the paper yellows. But I needed to write you — even if it’s only into the quiet.

I keep thinking about your hands. How they never reached for me in a rush. How they held me like I was something worth protecting — not because I was fragile, but because I was yours. You made me feel steady, even when the world was still shaking under my feet.

You loved me like I had never been broken.

And I think… I think that’s part of why I broke everything.

It doesn’t make sense, I know. But love like yours — it asks you to rise. And I didn’t know how to. Not then.

I was still mourning something I couldn’t name. The future I’d lost. The person I used to be. There was a storm in me I didn’t know how to quiet, and sometimes when Joel and I sat in that silence together, it felt like breathing underwater — wrong, but familiar. He knew the dark. I think I mistook that for safety.

But please believe me. I loved you.

Even when I was with him. Even when I chose wrong. Even now.

It wasn’t about choosing someone over you — it was about losing myself. And in the wreckage, I hurt the one person I never meant to. You didn’t deserve it. You never did.

I remember the way your voice softened when you said my name. The way you smiled when you thought I wasn’t looking. The way your fingers brushed the small of my back like you were memorizing me. God, Tommy — I loved you so quietly, I think you never realized how loud it lived in me.

And now I’ve stained it. I’ve stained us.

The worst part is knowing I can’t take it back. That no matter how many times I whisper your name in the dark, you won’t be there to answer it anymore.

I don’t expect anything. Not forgiveness. Not understanding.

But if there’s a part of you — even a splinter — that still remembers what we were when it was good… please hold onto that. Not for me. But for you. Because what we had was real, Tommy.

Even if I broke it.

I need you. Still. And always a little too late.

Love always

It had become a cruel joke at this point — how often you and Tommy ended up in the same room. Same roads. Same shops. Same town that felt smaller and smaller every time he looked through you like you were a stranger.

You hadn’t seen him at the counter when you walked into the diner — your mind too tired to scan for him, your stomach louder than your anxiety. But there he was, three seats down. Hunched over a half-eaten plate of food, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t leave. You couldn’t. The place was packed, and you were already late.

Tommy didn’t acknowledge you, but you saw it. The way his jaw tensed. The way his fork slowed down just slightly. He knew you were there. Of course he did. And the silence between you throbbed louder than the low hum of conversation around you.

You just wanted a quiet breakfast. Something warm. Something simple.

The man who sat down next to you smelled like sweat and old cigarettes. When he noticed you, he looked at you like you were a meal he’d already half-finished and didn’t particularly respect.

“Well, look who it is,” he muttered, loud enough for the next table to hear. “Didn’t think you’d show your face again.”

You didn’t look at him. “Not interested.”

“Bet that’s what you told Joel the first time, too. And Tommy. And who knows who else.”

The words hit you like ice water.

“Please leave me alone,” you said under your breath.

“Why?” he laughed. “Ain’t like your legs were closed before. You really gonna act shy now? After the whole town knows you were screwin’ around with both Miller brothers like it was your own little soap opera?”

You stiffened. People were starting to look over. The volume of his voice was rising, and so was your shame.

“Heard you like it rough. Heard you like to beg. How’d the Millers allow a little slut like you to ruin their family?”

You looked down, eyes stinging. The whispers were back, growing louder. You could feel them clinging to your skin.

"Ever think your mama died just so she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter turn into a whore?"

You felt it before you heard it — a sudden, unnatural stillness beside you.

The scrape of a stool. Then the sound of wood skittering against tile.

Tommy was on his feet.

Not rising — erupting.

His chair tipped backward, clattering to the ground, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down. His eyes were locked onto the man beside you, and there was nothing soft left in them. Not anger. Not pain. Not grief.

Just something unhinged.

Something raw.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Tommy said, low and dangerous.

His voice didn’t sound like his own. It was quieter than you expected. Quieter than it should have been. But somehow, it carried through the room like a warning bell — low and deadly, the kind of tone that makes your stomach twist before your mind even catches up.

The man — greasy, smug, half-drunk — let out a laugh. He spread his arms like he was performing for the audience that was already starting to gather.

“Jesus, man, I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You’re the one who got played. She—”

He didn’t finish.

Tommy’s fist hit his jaw so hard it made a crack like splitting bone.

The man reeled back into the counter with a grunt, clutching his mouth — but Tommy was already on him, fists flying with brutal, bone-breaking precision.

One. Two. Three.

You heard flesh meet flesh. Heard the man groan, then whimper, then go quiet as Tommy drove his fist into his face again and again — not just to hurt, but to erase him.

Curses spilled from Tommy’s mouth like venom. His breath ragged. His whole body shaking as he pressed forward, knuckles smeared red, eyes burning with something wild.

“Tommy!” you cried out, voice cracking.

But he didn’t hear you. He didn’t hear anything.

It was like watching someone drown from the inside out — a man unraveling, coming apart blow by blow.

The man had fallen to the floor now, barely conscious, one eye already swelling shut — but Tommy kept going. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him partway up just to drive another fist into his ribs. The sickening thud echoed like a gunshot.

Someone screamed. A chair scraped. Then another.

It took three grown men to finally drag Tommy off — his fists still swinging, legs kicking, his voice hoarse and cracked with rage. He struggled like an animal in a trap, teeth bared, his breath coming in ragged bursts that sounded more like gasps than anything human.

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot, hands trembling.

Tommy’s face was smeared with blood — some his, most not. His eyes darted around the room as they held him back, chest heaving, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white beneath the blood.

And then — it stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The diner had gone completely still. Forks hovered mid-air. Half-eaten food sat forgotten. Every eye in the room was on him — on the blood, the wreckage, the man everyone thought they knew.

Tommy looked down at his hands, and something in him shifted.

Like he’d just realized where he was. What he’d done.

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his cheek. His gaze found you — just for a second.

And in that second, he didn’t look furious anymore.

He looked shattered.

Then, without a word, he shrugged off the hands holding him, turned, and walked out the door. Leaving silence and blood in his wake.

And you sat there, tears brimming, your heart in your throat.

It wasn’t just the shame that burned — it was the truth.

He was still protecting you.

Even now. Even after everything. And it was killing him.

The cold hit you first. Bitter and sharp against your skin, the kind that makes your lungs ache. But you didn’t care. You just ran — out the diner, past the wooden porch, boots scraping against the icy gravel road as you tried to catch up to him.

“Tommy!” you called, breathless. “Tommy, please— just wait!”

He kept walking. Fast. Determined. Like if he didn’t stop, none of this could catch him. Like if he just moved fast enough, he wouldn’t feel it. Wouldn’t feel you.

But you weren’t giving up this time. You couldn’t.

“Tommy—!”

He spun around so fast you almost ran right into him. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving from more than just the fight. His voice, when it came, was fire and fury and grief all wrapped into one.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped, sharp enough to cut you in half.

You staggered a step back, breath catching in your throat. He looked like he could explode all over again — jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know what else to do with them. You’d never seen him like this. Not even the night he left.

“Tommy, I— I needed to talk to you. I just needed to say—”

“I’m losing my fuckin' mind,” he cut you off, voice shaking now. “You think I wanna feel like this? You think I like that I can’t stop giving a shit even when I want to?”

He laughed then — a dark, miserable sound that cracked somewhere in the middle. “I feel so goddamn stupid, you know that? All this shit people are saying about me— whispers, stares, fuckin' sympathy— I should be brushing it off. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

“And you know what that means?” he continued, stepping forward like the weight of it was too much to carry still. “It means I’m a fuckin' idiot. ‘Cause it proves I never got over you. That I thought I could, and I couldn’t. That maybe I never will.”

The words hit you hard, hollowing you out from the inside. But he wasn’t finished.

“I hate that I care about what they’re saying. But I hate it more when I hear them talkin' about you like that. Like you’re nothin' but some goddamn whore.” His voice cracked, his face twisting. “And after what that guy said in there…”

He looked down at his hands — still bloody, still trembling.

“I don’t even remember throwing the first punch,” he admitted, softer now. “I just saw red. Thought about everything. The whispers. The looks. Thanksgiving. You and Joel. I was already chokin' on all of it. And then that bastard had the nerve to bring up your mom and it just— snapped.”

He ran a hand through his hair, turning away. “And I lost it. I fuckin' lost it.”

You stood still, barely breathing. You could still feel the tension radiating off of him like heat. Still hear the echo of fists on skin, that sick, awful crack that had made your stomach twist.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, so quietly you barely heard it. “When I saw your face after, the way you looked at me…”

You stepped forward before he could finish. “I was scared,” you said honestly. “But not of you. I was scared because I didn’t know how much more either of us could take.”

His eyes met yours, and in them you saw something flicker. Guilt. Sadness. Love that hadn’t gone anywhere — it had just been buried under the rubble.

“And I need you to know,” you continued, “what you saw at Thanksgiving? With Joel? We weren’t doing anything. He was just warning me… that his ex wife told people. That everyone knew. That’s it.”

Tommy looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t feel like nothin'.”

“I know,” you said. “But it was. I swear it was.”

A long silence stretched between you, brittle and cold. You watched him breathe, eyes fixed on the horizon like it could offer him answers.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he muttered eventually. “You broke my heart. I don’t even know if I can forgive you yet.”

You nodded, your chest aching. “I’m not asking you to. I just… wanted you to know the truth. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

He stared at you for a long time, the anger slowly bleeding from his features. Replaced by exhaustion. By wariness. By that familiar softness that hadn’t quite died, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

“I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do now,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Me either,” you whispered. “But maybe we figure it out. Or maybe… we don’t. I just didn’t want you carrying all of this alone anymore. Let me explain everything with Joel. Please Tommy."

He stared, you could see him debating the offer in his mind. But then he nodded — once — and started walking away, indicating he wanted you to follow.

The morning air was thick with tension as you followed Tommy through the sleet covered streets, your footsteps echoing in the silence. He hadn't said a word since you left the diner, his posture rigid, his pace quickening with each step. You hesitated, unsure if you should speak, but the weight of the moment pressed on you.

Finally, you reached his doorstep. Tommy paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Without turning to face you, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Don't mind the mess. Haven't really had it in me to clean lately."

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I know."

He exhaled sharply, pushing the door open and stepping aside.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. The usual warmth and comfort seemed absent, replaced by an unsettling stillness. You followed him into the living room, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. It was as if the walls themselves held secrets, memories of a time before everything had changed.

Tommy led you down a narrow hallway to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered overhead as he stood before the mirror, staring at his reflection. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it onto his face. The blood from the earlier altercation began to mix with the water, swirling down the drain.

Frustration etched deep lines into his forehead as he scrubbed harder, trying to erase the evidence of his actions. You watched him, your heart aching at the sight. This wasn't the man you knew — the gentle, kind-hearted soul who had shown you what love could be. This was someone else, someone broken.

You stepped forward, your hand gently resting on his shoulder. "Tommy," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Let me."

He stiffened under your touch but didn't pull away. Slowly, he sank onto the toilet seat, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together. You moved to the sink, wetting a washcloth with warm, soapy water. As you approached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently dabbing at the blood on his face.

The action was tender, soothing, a silent apology for the pain you had caused. As you cleaned him, your thoughts spilled out, raw and unfiltered.

"I've been with Joel for a while now— little over a year," you began, your voice trembling. "I knew he was married, but I thought... I thought I wanted him so badly. He made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time. I thought he loved me."

Tommy's body tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching. You paused, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "I wasn't delusional. I knew he had a wife. But something about the way he made me feel... it made me think it was okay."

You continued, your hands moving carefully over his skin, wiping away the remnants of the morning's violence. "Over time, his love felt like hate. We were addicted to each other, but it was toxic. He never opened up to me, and I finally ended things."

His eyes softened, but the pain was still there, lurking beneath the surface.

"That's when I met you," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "At first, I was in a dark place. But you... you pulled me out of it. You showed me what love is supposed to feel like."

Tommy's breath hitched, his eyes closing as if to block out the flood of emotions.

"But then Joel came to me," you continued, your voice breaking. "He was jealous. He said he realized he truly loved me. He left his wife for me. And I... I didn't know what to do."

You paused, your heart heavy with the weight of your confession. "I wanted you, Tommy. That's why I spent so much time with you. I wanted to avoid Joel. And when you went on that supply run, I knew he would come. And he did. He made me feel like I wasn't good enough for you. Like I was a bad person."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you spoke. "He opened up about his past, and I was so confused. He said we belonged together. He manipulated me. And I believed him. I thought you deserved better. And that's why I did what I did."

Tommy's hand reached up, brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. His touch was gentle, hesitant.

"I understand if you hate me," you whispered. "But I needed you to know the truth."

Silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating. Tommy sat there, unmoving, processing your words. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.

You nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted you to know everything."

The cloth had turned a deep rust color, blood clinging to the fibers no matter how many times you rinsed it. The water swirled pink in the sink, warm and steady, but your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Tommy hadn’t said a word since you finished cleaning his face, finished dabbing at the streaks of blood with a gentle touch.

He looked so different now. Tired. Hollowed. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. Like joy had been scraped out of him with something sharp and careless. Like he’d been living on borrowed breath ever since.

You didn’t know why the words started pouring out.

Only that they’d lived too long in your chest. That this silence between you was wide enough to carry them.

“She wanted me to come,” you said, barely a whisper. “My mom. We were down to a single can of beans and a couple stale crackers. She said she’d feel better if we went together. That two pairs of eyes were better than one.”

Tommy looked up, slow and careful.

“But I was… I was scared,” you confessed, fingers tightening around the cloth. “It was getting dark. I didn’t want to be out there when the sun went down. I begged her to go without me. So she did.”

You let out a breath that trembled as it left you.

“She kissed my forehead, told me to bar the door behind her, and promised she’d be back before moonlight.”

You blinked hard.

“She came back with a broken lantern and a ripped jacket… and a bite.”

Your throat swelled shut at the memory, your voice a fragile thing breaking against the edges of your teeth.

“I believed — I still believe — that if I’d gone with her, she wouldn’t’ve been bit. Or I would’ve been. Or we would’ve both made it. I don’t know. I just know I didn’t go, and she died.”

A beat passed. Tommy's eyes filled with sorrow.

“When I saw the bite, I begged her to cut it off. I screamed until my voice broke. But it was already too late. Her hand was gray. The veins were turning. She knew.”

You stared at the cloth in your hands like it could wash the past clean too.

“She held me, told me she loved me, and then she made me promise to lock myself in the back room when it started. I tried. I did. I held the door shut and covered my ears. But I could still hear her.”

Your voice splintered.

“And when it stopped— when it went quiet— I waited for hours. And then I opened the door.”

You didn’t have to say what you saw. The image lived behind your eyes every time they closed.

“I used a fireplace poker,” you said, quieter now. “It took more than one hit.”

Tommy’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes shimmered like they were carrying the weight for you.

“I didn’t cry until it was over. And then I couldn’t stop. I buried her behind that barn with my bare hands. No shovel. Just dirt under my nails and blood on my wrists.”

You sat back against the wall and laughed softly, bitter and aching.

“After that, I wandered. I ended up with this man who said he’d keep me safe. I didn’t know what safe was supposed to look like anymore, so I believed him. He was kind at first. Gave me food, taught me how to shoot. But it turned fast.”

You wiped your eyes, only for fresh tears to take their place.

“He got possessive. Controlling. Said I owed him for everything. And one night… he tried to take what I didn’t owe. I ran. I didn’t stop running. Left everything behind. Everything but the scars.”

You traced a faint mark on your forearm, barely visible now, like a ghost trying to fade.

“I didn’t trust anyone for a long time. I fought for scraps. Slept in trees or crumbled houses. Stayed feral. And then… I found Jackson.”

You looked over at Tommy then. Really looked at him.

“And for the first time, people didn’t look at me like I was a stray. They gave me a home. A job. A name that didn’t feel like it came with blood.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your voice cracking again.

“So when Joel started looking at me like I was worth something, I couldn’t help it. I mistook it for love. I didn’t know better. I was still learning what love’s supposed to feel like.”

Your chest felt too tight to hold the truth. But you said it anyway.

“Until you.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of your tears.

“I was already damaged by the time I met you,” you said. “But you… you made me feel like I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Like I could be something soft. Something whole again.”

You stood slowly, walking to the sink and rinsing the rag one more time. The last of the blood twisted down the drain, disappearing into the dark.

“But I ruined that,” you said, voice low. “And I’ll live with it for the rest of my life.”

You turned back to Tommy.

He hadn’t moved. Not really. But something in his face had shifted — not softened, but cracked. A splintering of something buried deep.

If he spoke, you’d let him. If he didn’t, you’d understand.

You had no right to expect anything anymore.

You just wanted him to know who you really were before you lost the chance to be known at all.

You collapsed before you even realized your knees had given out.

The sobs had clawed their way up your throat so violently, you weren’t sure if you were breathing anymore. They weren’t dainty, quiet cries — they were guttural, trembling things, born from the deepest pit of memory. From the moment her hand slid from yours. From the way you waited for hours by the door until she came back bitten. From the awful silence that followed after you had to do the unthinkable.

The fire poker. Her eyes, no longer hers. The smell of blood and burnt iron.

The first swing. The second. The third.

You curled into yourself on the cold bathroom floor as if that could somehow undo the memory, or at least contain it.

And then there were arms around you.

Tommy didn’t speak. He didn’t try to hush you or ask questions or pretend to understand. He just gathered you into him with a tenderness that broke something else inside you — something quieter. Something long-starved.

You buried your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart completely.

“I’ve never told anyone,” you gasped eventually, your throat raw. “No one knows. They knew my mom died but not— not how. I never wanted to say it out loud. I was so scared. I should’ve gone with her. If I had, maybe— maybe she wouldn’t have been bit.”

Tommy’s grip around you tightened, protective and grounding.

“You were a child,” he murmured, his voice hushed like a prayer. “You were scared. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

You shook your head fiercely. “I had to kill her, Tommy. With a fucking fire poker. It took more than one hit. She didn’t even look like her anymore. But I saw her face. I saw it in the way she flinched before I— I just wanted it to stop.”

You started sobbing again, harder now, and he guided you gently back against his chest, cradling your head, his palm rubbing soft circles into your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered. “I’m so sorry for all of it. For Joel. For the way I left things. For hurting you.”

Tommy’s voice broke when he finally answered. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve listened. Should’ve let you explain. Maybe we wouldn’t’ve ended up in pieces.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him — eyes red, cheeks blotchy. He reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek with a knuckle, like the gentlest thing he’d ever done.

“I ended things with Joel before you got back,” you whispered. “He told me he loved me and I couldn’t even say it back. I told him to leave. That it was over. I didn’t want him. Not anymore.”

Tommy swallowed, eyes searching yours. You could see the pain still there, beneath the surface. But you saw something else, too — that warm, quiet flicker that had always made you feel like home.

“I think about you every single day,” you said, voice trembling. “About what I lost. What I gave up. You made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away.

“I missed you,” he said finally, like the words had been waiting behind his ribs for too long. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when it hurt like hell.”

You reached up and took his hand in yours. “I love you, Tommy. I never stopped. Not even when I hated myself.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

And then he kissed you.

It was soft and slow, mouths trembling against each other, tasting of sorrow and healing and all the time you’d lost. You didn’t rush it. You just held on — fingers in his hair, heart splintering open in your chest like a window cracking to let the light in.

When you pulled back, your breath hitched. You didn’t want to let go. But some part of you still felt like you didn’t deserve to stay.

So you stood.

“I should go,” you murmured, voice quiet as you reached for the rag still clutched in your hand.

Tommy stayed on the floor, staring at the tile like it held the answers.

Then — softly, but with no hesitation — his hand reached out.

He caught your fingers in his, callused and warm, holding them like something sacred. Both of your eyes were still swollen. Both of your hearts still trembling. But the air between you had shifted — lighter now. Honest.

“Stay,” he said, voice low and aching. “Please stay.”

Your chest cracked. The ache, the guilt, the love — all of it swelled so fast it felt like it might knock you down again.

But you didn’t fall. “Okay.”

You knelt back down. Took his face in your hands. And kissed him once more.

This time, it wasn’t goodbye.

It was the beginning.

It started slow. Careful. Like the two of you were afraid of what you might find in each other’s mouths after so long. His lips trembled against yours like he didn’t trust the shape they made when they remembered your name. And you — you kissed him like someone starving for something you had no right to taste.

Tommy had every reason to push you away. Every reason to hate you. You cheated. You broke the one thing he gave you freely. His trust.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. He just held your face between his hands, like you were something fragile he hadn’t decided whether to keep or crush.

“I should hate you,” he said against your mouth, voice gravel-thick and shaking. “I want to. Jesus, I want to. But I don’t.”

The words cracked something inside you.

You’d cried before. At the diner. In the hallway. At night when no one could hear you. But now, in the quiet wreckage of his bathroom, with the moonlight cutting through the window like a witness, you shattered.

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing holding you to earth. His heartbeat was wild beneath your palm—chaotic and human and so, so full of pain.

“I don’t deserve this,” you whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

Tommy pressed his forehead to yours, exhaling through his nose like it hurt to keep breathing.

“No,” he admitted, eyes shut tight. “You don’t.”

It would’ve hurt more if he’d lied.

“But I still fuckin' love you.”

That’s when the kiss deepened.

It turned desperate. Hungry. A kind of grief-driven hunger that came from needing to remember everything you were terrified you’d forgotten. His hands roamed — slow and reverent — across your ribs, your waist, your jaw. Yours mirrored his, like you were rediscovering a map your heart still knew by memory.

The bathroom floor was cold beneath you. His hands were still stained with blood, your cheeks streaked with salt. The air between you carried the heat of unspoken apologies, of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

Tommy’s breath caught as he kissed down the curve of your jaw, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say.

“I tried to forget you,” he rasped. “I thought if I hated you enough… if I stayed mad long enough… it’d go away. But it didn’t.”

You nodded, pressing your lips to the pulse in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to ruin us,” you choked. “I was so lost, and Joel— he twisted everything in my head. Made me believe I was too broken to be loved the way you loved me.”

Tommy flinched at his brother’s name but didn’t pull back.

“I still trusted you,” he said, voice like crushed glass. “Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when I saw you with him, part of me kept hopin' you’d look at me the way you used to. Like I was enough.”

“You were always enough,” you swore, the words barely breathing between you. “I just didn’t believe I was.”

Tommy’s eyes shimmered — red-rimmed and raw. He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or run. But instead, he touched your cheek with the back of his fingers, like you were a ghost he hadn’t dared reach for.

“I didn’t know how badly you had me wrapped around your fingers,” he whispered. “Not until you were gone.”

You curled into him, your tears soaking into his shoulder.

When he kissed you again, it was slower. More cautious. Like he was sealing a promise he didn’t know if he could keep.

Your thumbs traced the curve of his cheekbones and relearned the softness beneath the man hardened by grief.

He kissed you deeper, tongue slipping passed the curve of your teeth, exploring like the territory was new to him. He wasn’t going to stop this, not with the way your hands began to drift down his chest, his sternum — slipping underneath the fabric of his worn flannel, exploring his body all over again. Not with the way his fingers curled against your waist like he was terrified of letting go again.

And not with how long it had been since he last touched you like this — with worship and ache and hunger all braided together.

You kissed him back slower this time, deeper — like your lungs knew his breath better than your own. You felt the way his lips were cracked from the cold. The way his rough stubble scraped your skin like a memory you welcomed.

The tension, the grief, the time — it all burned through your veins as you rocked your hips against his, feeling the way his length was already bulging through the fabric of his jeans. It’s been too long since you felt the drag of his teeth against your jaw, leaving a trail of saliva along the way. Too long since you curled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging to keep yourself upright. Too long since your name slipped from his throat like a prayer, sounding like he was waiting for this day too.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

You didn’t respond. Just pressed closer until there was nothing between you but the restricting fabric. So close your knees dug painfully into the cold tile.

And when he groaned — low and guttural — you felt it in your spine.

He wrapped his arms around your back, laying you carefully on the hard floor — hips grinding into yours for any sense of relief, fingers brushing the stray hairs from your eyes. He was full of lust, full of hunger. Full of grief and devotion.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he muttered against your skin, mouth moving along you jaw, your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. “I should fuckin’ hate you.”

“I know.” You whispered.

“But I can’t.”

You didn’t realize you were crying again until he kissed your tears away.

“I tried to hate you,” he said, hands slipping beneath your shirt, rough palms mapping your ribs like he had to memorize every inch before sliding higher — grazing against the curve of your nipples already peaking. “God, I tried. But my heart was still reaching for you every time our paths crossed. I couldn’t scrub you outta me.”

You swallowed a sob, your body arching beneath his touch as he pushed your shirt above your chest — revealing your needy body underneath. His hands traveled all around the hills of your breasts, his head trailing kisses slowly down your body — hovering just over your curves. You instinctively arched up, trying to meet his mouth. His eyes flicked to yours, dark and hungry. He looked mad, yet his touch indicated otherwise.

“I still love you,” he confessed. You’re breath hitched, his lips trembled. “Even after everything you’ve done. Even after you ruined me. I still fuckin’ love you.”

Then his mouth was everywhere — desperate and sure — like he was reclaiming something sacred. And you let him. Let him bite at the soft flesh of your breasts, marking the skin no one else had touched in over a month. Your back screamed in pain against the bathroom tile, your fingers clung to him like a lifeline.

He was clumsy. Licking circles, flicking his tongue against your aching nubs. Taking your nipples between his teeth — sending electic shocks through your body — before sucking them into his mouth, tasting every part of you. His curls fell messily into his eyes when he pulled away with a loud pop. He’s never looked more unkept. But the way his eyes found yours underneath his curls had you squirming.

He trailed his fingers down to the clasp of your jeans, undoing the button and pushing them down to your ankles. You kicked them off, spreading your legs — ready and pleading. The soft cotton of your panties darkened in the center, proving how much you needed this — him.

His palm rubbed on the outside of the cotton — a soft whimper escaping your lips at his touch. He never broke his eye contact with you as his finger hooked, pulling your panties to the side and revealing your glistening pussy.

One of his fingers trailed achingly slow through your folds, collecting your juices and rubbing small circles when he came into contact with you swollen clit. He was killing you slowly, that was for sure. You spread your legs wider, begging for him to push his fingers through your entrance. But still, he trailed his fingers between you with that deadly eye contact you couldn’t stand anymore.

“Soaked.” Is all he said after a while. You didn’t know if he was trying to torture you. If maybe he was doing this to you as some sort of sick revenge plot. Have you ruined from his touch, begging and pleading for him, and then walk away without finishing what he started.

But finally, he pushed two fingers inside of you — sucking in a breath when he felt how ready you were for him. He started a slow pace, watching the way his fingers were soaked as he pulled out — just to push back in harder than before.

“Tommy…” You quivered. “Tommy please. I’m hurting— I.”

He leaned in close, lips hovering over yours. He rubbed your temple with his thumb, caressed your face.

“God, no one’s touched you in a while, have they?”

You shook your head harshly, mouth making a small O when his fingers started thrusting into you faster. A disgusting squelch filled the air.

His eyes had a fire behind them as he asked: “Was I the last person to touch you like this? The the last person to fill your pretty pussy with their fingers, huh?”

“Oh— god, yes Tommy. Just you.” You moaned. His fingers now curved inside of you, his thumb rubbing hard circles against your throbbing clit. He smirked, the fire fading out knowing that you’ve been waiting for him. Knowing you’ve been wanting him and only him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “Gonna take good care of my girl.”

My girl.

You know you probably shouldn’t take that as anything, that maybe it was a heat of the moment thing. But you couldn’t help the way you heart swelled. Couldn’t help the smile spreading across your mouth.

You heard him throw his belt on the bathroom floor with a rough clank. Heard the fabric of his jeans being tugged down as he finally frees himself. You physically gulp, prepared and aching for him.

He rubs his tip over you clit, slapping it against it soflty — teasingly. Your nails dig into his arms. Pleading words escaping your lips.

Tommy grabbed you cheeks with his free hand, looking you dead in the eye as he pushed his cock between your walls. You clenched around the feeling — burning sensation shooting through your body as you attempt to stretch to his size.

“I fuckin’ hate you.” He mutters, pushing himself deeper when he knows that you can take it. Your body trembles, you deserve this. But then his hand is trailing through your hair, tugging slightly — forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“But god do I love you.” He says then. I love you. And he actually, genuinely smiles — a deep moan leaving his lips as he bottoms out. Your nails are scratching him now as you try to adjust to his size. But the burn is pleasurable at the same time. “Open your mouth.”

And you do, knowing that from then on you’ll always do whatever Tommy wants. That you’ll always love Tommy. A string of spit falls between his lips, right into your mouth. You don’t swallow — keeping it open so he can see the way his saliva hits your tongue, pools into your mouth.

"That's my girl," he chuckles lightly, quietly. He finally starts moving inside of you, slow at first. Until he’s going rough, skin slapping skin. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart, you can swallow now.”

And you watch the way his eyes blacken, the way he bites harshly at his bottom lip as you swallow his spit. Tasting the inside of his mouth. His hand traces your throat, watching it bob when you drink him.

Tommy sits up, ripping his shirt over his head and pulling your hips into him. His thumb circles your clit while he burries himself deep. Your back is arched off the bathroom floor, tears streaking you face from the pace.

A tight heat coils in the pit of your stomach and your legs shake uncontrollably. Walls clench around him and a groan from deep within leaves his mouth at the feeling.

“Tommy,” you moan, hands tightly wrapped around his wrists to keep yourself steady. “Tommy, come with me.”

“Shit. Yeah okay, babygirl.”

He lies back on top of you, one arm wrapping around your back, the other gripping your thigh as his pace quickens. Hitting you deeper and deeper every time. You’re screaming at this point, body convulsing. And when his thrusts finally falter, you come hard around him and he follows. White strands shooting inside of you. His cock twitches with every pulse.

He gives out, putting his entire weight on you — nothing but breath and bruised hearts, limbs tangled like roots desperate to hold — Tommy moved gently. Tender in a way that nearly broke you. He cleaned you up with warm hands, wiping the sweat and remnants of need from your skin like you were something sacred. Like this was something that mattered.

He helped you to your feet, still unsteady, still shaking from all the things that had been said and the things your bodies couldn’t help but confess. And without a word, he led you through the quiet house. Back to the place that once felt like home.

His room looked the same.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The blankets were still slightly uneven, the corner of the rug still curled like always. His gun sat on the bedside table, unloaded but close. Your side of the bed — the left — was untouched. Like he'd never let himself forget.

He laid you down carefully, like you might shatter, and climbed in behind you without hesitation. You shifted instinctively, curling into him, your back pressed to his chest, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left.

His warmth enveloped you — all muscle and tension and safety. He smelled like salt and sweat and sex. And still, somehow, it smelled like home.

“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, voice hoarse and small, swallowed by the hush of the room. You weren’t sure if you meant it, but the weight of everything hung heavy between you.

You felt him breathe in deep behind you, chest rising slow and steady against your spine. Then, softly — so softly — he answered:

“Stay with me.”

Your breath caught.

No hesitation. No conditions. No more pretending.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes, your fingers curling gently around the arm he’d wrapped around you like a shield.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe love could survive this too.

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filthyjoelslvr · 10 days ago

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Miller brothers ft sad manspreading

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filthyjoelslvr · 11 days ago

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oh i'm INTO THIS

A Dance In The Dark

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Joel has always taken care of you. Always been your kind, attentive protector. And that doesn’t change, even when you read a scene from a dark romance novel and discover your tastes may be a bit more sordid than you once thought. But even in this he wants to grant you your every wish—and when he offers to put on a mask and chase you through the woods, the opportunity is just too wicked to pass up.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content MDNI, feelings of embarrassment and shame, established relationship, Joel ties readers hands with his belt, knife play, BDSM undertones (primal play specifically), sexual aggression, degradation, fingering, p in v, hair pulling, shameless smut this is basically just pure filth

NOTE: this is a cowrite i did with joelmillersgirlfriend! we busted this out in less than two days because i was bound and determined to get this published on the best holiday of the year! please check out her stuff over on AO3 where we have several other cowrites because i love her 🩷

happy halloween my loves 🩷

Read on AO3!

MASTERLIST

You don’t tell him right away. Don’t tell him at all, really.

Joel discovers your peculiar fascination all on his own.

He’s late coming home from work. His dinner sits on a plate in the microwave, leftovers packaged and put in the fridge for his lunch tomorrow. His lack of punctuality is nothing new, but you’ve always been good at filling the time and finding a distraction while you wait for him.

On this particular night, you’ve changed out of your clothes and into one of his T-shirts, nestled into a soft cocoon on his side of the bed, book in hand. The tea in your mug on your nightstand has gone tepid, too lost between the pages to consume anything but the content in a timely manner.

You’d found it in the horror section, a book written by a name you’d never heard of, a story of a young woman’s abduction with overarching themes of perseverance and self-discovery. You find it a bit graphic from time to time, the details of her torment vivid and lifelike. But that’s to be expected in a horror novel and doesn’t surprise you.

The part that does surprise you, however, is the romantic undercurrent between the woman and her captor. He makes declarations of love, fully admitting his obsession with the young woman, claiming to want nothing from her but her own empowerment.

It’s an even bigger surprise when you reach the halfway point and discover that your horror novel is also an erotica. And the text is well-written, pulling you into its depths, and you think it might be the craziest yet best book you’ve ever read if for nothing else than the way it makes your heart race behind your ribcage.

“Is it that good?”

His voice startles you so badly the book falls from your hands and into your lap. “What?”

Joel laughs, a soft sound of amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, toeing off his shoes. He leans over the edge of the bed to press his lips to your forehead, and you find yourself swimming in the subtle affection.

And you know it’s because you’ve been reading smut for the last three hours straight, but the feel of his lips against your skin is heavenly. You abandon the book, tucking the edge of the dust jacket inside the pages to mark your place and discarding it onto the nightstand. It’s second nature as you twist your hands into the soft fabric of his flannel and pull him close.

He smells like pine and sawdust and sweat. His hands are rough and calloused as he cradles your face, lips turning upwards against yours. When you deepen the kiss, sliding your soft tongue against his, Joel laughs again, a little darker this time. He pulls away and the loss makes you whimper because you need him. And the bastard knows it. Because when his gaze roams over your face, lingering on your lips, there’s a heavy undertone of lust behind the playfulness. “S’alright, sweet girl,” he says gently. “None of that whinin’. M’gonna take care of you like I always do. Just wanna know what’s brought this on is all.”

You’re not sure you can admit the truth to him. And even more than that, you don’t have the words to explain that what’s got you so worked up is a scene in your book where the main character is being chased through the woods, her captor wearing a Halloween mask, under the pretense that if he catches her, he’s going to fuck her. Your cheeks warm at just the idea of such an admission, so instead you say, “I just missed you is all.”

Joel doesn’t believe it for a second. He knows you like the back of his hand and sees easily through the lie. And when he glances at your book on the nightstand twice, you know you’ve been caught before he even says a word. “Thought that was one of those scary books you like.”

“It is,” you tell him. Because, technically, it’s the truth.

He narrows his eyes at you, that all-knowing smirk still plastered on his face. “Yeah? Bein’ scared’s what’s got you all squirmy like this?”

As much as you’d like to deny it, to argue his assessment, Joel leans over a little further and his weight on top of you, heavy and sure and safe, makes your breath catch in your lungs. Warmth pools low in your belly and that low, husky tone in his voice only makes matters worse.

“Think whatever’s in that book’s got you all worked up. What’s it about, baby? Hm?” Joel shoves the blanket out of the way and slides his hand between your body and his. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of his hands on you, the contrast of his roughness against all your softest parts. It’s like the first time every time, and you can feel the steady thump of your heart as it hammers behind your sternum.

Heat rises up your chest when his hand touches your favorite spot, already knowing what he’s going to say. You’re drenched, the insides of your thighs slick with excitement. Joel breathes out a tell-tale hiss at the feeling, pulling back to glance down at you. Humor is suddenly nowhere to be found on his face, no smirks or teasing words. Just dark, hot lust, turning Joel’s eyes black.

“Christ,” Joel groans, continuing to explore between your legs.

You don’t want to tell him what the book’s about, and thankfully he seems to forget he’d asked the question as his long fingers find their place, curling inside of you.

Joel keeps his promise. He takes care of the ache for you like he always does. He makes you finish on his fingers and his tongue and when he finally sinks deep inside you it feels like relief. You warm up leftovers for him afterward, and he doesn’t pressure you about talking about your book. Instead, he tells you about his day while the two of you sit at the kitchen table and the light of his love fills you from the inside out.

You finish the book in less than two days, but its content lives in your head for far longer.

Showering, cooking, running errands - you find yourself thinking about that scene in the woods so often you begin to wonder if it’s altered your brain chemistry.

That weekend you go out for drinks with a couple of girlfriends, letting Joel know you’ll likely be late coming home. He makes you promise to call him if you need a ride and says he’s going to invite Tommy over to watch the game.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Joel’s little brother practically lived with the two of you until Maria stepped into the picture, and you pinky swear to call if you need him.

You don’t, though. You spend more time gossiping and laughing and catching up than you do drinking. But it’s dark when you pull into the driveway, and though you don’t see Tommy’s truck you assume Joel might have picked him up and you fully expect to see him standing in your kitchen with a hand in the fridge grabbing another beer.

Tommy’s nowhere to be found, though. And there’s no referee calling shots on the flat screen. There’s no sound at all, in fact. At first, it alarms you. But then you see Joel sprawled out on the couch in sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt with a book in his hand.

He glances up from the pages only long enough to smile up at you and say, “Hey, sweetheart. Have a good time?”

You hesitate, watching him from where you stand at the doorway. Joel read occasionally, but only if he needed to. If he wanted to learn a new song on guitar, if he had taken on a new car project and had to teach himself how to repair it. He didn’t read for luxury.

“Yeah, it was nice. What about you? Where’s Tommy?” you questioned, tiptoeing over to where Joel was spread out. The book was positioned in a way that didn’t allow you to see its cover, but it most definitely wasn’t one of Joel’s manuals.

Joel turned to grin at you, his eyes scanning your body, stopping to look at the frown on your lips.

“He canceled, ditched me to hang out with Maria,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. Your frown deepened as you moved closer to Joel, still eyeing the book in his hand that was conveniently covered by his large palms.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come back sooner,” you said, reaching down to run your palm through his gray-streaked hair. You had convinced him to stop touching up his roots, some sick part of you loving how mature he looked.

“I didn’t wanna interrupt. ‘Sides, I wanted to see what got you all worked up the other night,” Joel explained casually, finally exposing the book he was holding. All of the colors left your face as you processed what was happening, that he was more than halfway done with the story. Joel was well into reading the disturbing erotica, but somehow still hadn’t put it down.

“This is some dark stuff. You’re telling me that this is what had you drippin’? Had you clenched around me, legs shaking?” Joel asked, breaking heavy eye contact with you to go back to reading.

“Come on, Joel. Give it back,” you whined, reaching down to pull it out of his hands. The word embarrassed didn’t cover how you truly felt. Mortified was a better fit.

He wrestled around in your hold, turning his back to you and shielding the book with his body. “Not yet, I’m just about to reach the good part. I wanna know what happens when he catches her.”

Maybe not mortified. You were fucking humiliated. Tears threatened to spill as you reached down, pawing at Joel’s arms to grab the book. “Stop it. It’s just a stupid fantasy, I know it’s dumb.”

Joel glanced back to see the wetness filling your eyes, instantly releasing his grip so you could take the book back. His large palm reached up to cradle your face, to comfort you.

“Hey now, I never said it was dumb. I didn’t mean to upset you. I guess I never really knew you were into that kind of stuff. Nothing’s wrong with it.”

His words are sincere and make you feel a little bit better, but you still feel ashamed that Joel had read the book. You know he’d never judge you, but it feels like your closest kept secret has been thrust into the light without your permission. Warmth spreads over your face, down your neck, twisting your stomach into knots. “I know but I…I just didn’t expect you to read it.”

“Then I won’t,” he says quickly, pushing himself up off the couch. He places a warm hand on the side of your neck and says again, “I won’t. I promise. No tears baby, alright?”

You nod and sniffle, trusting him, knowing that his words hold sincerity. Exhaling a long breath, you try to shove the mortification away and focus instead on this man before you who loves you enough to learn everything about you, even the things best kept hidden.

Joel gives you the book and you shove it in the back of your side of the closet, hidden beneath a shoe box. He helps you out of your dress and showers with you, washing your hair while you tell him all about girls’ night and the newest gossip.

After, when you’re both cozy in bed, wrapped up tight in his strong arms, stealing his warmth with your cold feet against his legs, you think maybe you might’ve overreacted about the book. You know Joel would never judge you, not even about this. You think maybe the embarrassment comes from somewhere within, that maybe it’s more like insecurity than shame. And so you say, “I’m sorry about earlier. You can finish the story if you want.”

Joel presses a kiss into your hair. “Not really my type of book, anyhow.”

Even though he says it mostly to comfort you, the words make you laugh. You bury your face into the crook of his neck and can feel the vibration of his amusement as he shares the moment with you.

And when you both settle enough to speak again, his voice is a little quieter as he asks, “You want me to do that to you?”

This time you fight your shame. Wrap it up tight and store it away for something else, something more worthy than a peculiar taste. You think about yourself in place of the main character, running between thick tree trunks with dead leaves crunching beneath your feet.

You think of Joel in place of the woman’s captor, mask over his face, presence dark and looming as he seeks you out. A shiver runs down your spine, so sharp and demanding that your body trembles in his hold.

“S’okay if you do,” he murmurs. You can feel each word through his chest, a delicious tremor against your suddenly too-hot skin. Joel lifts his hand and brushes your hair gently away from your face, thumb tracing the outline of your lips. “Know it did somethin’ to you. Turned you real greedy the other day. Hm?”

Arousal pools low in your belly, and you can hear your heart in your ears. You think he could convince you to do anything when he talks like that, voice low and gravelly. “Maybe,” you say. “I don’t know.”

“Read another part,” he whispers. His thumb travels slowly down your chin, over the curve of your jaw, down the column of your throat. “He’s got that switchblade in his hand. Touches her real nice, all sweet and loving. But he keeps that blade right…” Joel drags his index finger slowly across your neck. “ Here .”

The sound that escapes you is more than need, it’s something else entirely; more like desperation. You didn’t think it was possible to want him any more than you already do but this Joel who strikes just the right amount of fear in you? He makes your mouth water, makes you tremble and shake with just the caress of a single touch.

He grips the back of your thigh with his free hand, pulling you close, pressing you tight against the growing erection behind the cotton fabric of his boxers. Joel’s always been insatiable for you, sometimes getting worked up just from staring at you too long. But you begin to wonder if this is something he wants, too. “Should take you out someplace real nice,” he mutters. “Get all dressed up. You can wear that pretty pink sundress I like. Take you out to a nice dinner, treat you so fuckin’ good…an’ when the sun sets, I’d drive you someplace real dark. Let you loose.”

Even though he’s barely touching you, thumb stroking the skin of your hip gently, your clit pulses between your legs, hips shifting against him of their own accord. Your breath comes fast and labored and you think you’ve never been this fucking wet before—never wanted him so bad . It feels like you can’t think, can’t breathe without it, without Joel .

“Give you a head start,” he continues. “Long enough for me to put a mask on. Wouldn’t even let you see it ‘til I catch you…An’ I will catch you, sweet girl…but you’d have no way of knowin’ who it was. Could be me. Could be anyone.”

The idea is filthy and disgusting but your body doesn’t seem to mind. Your spine arches, breasts pressing up against his chest. Joel lays there stone still, holding you, letting you rut against him like a woman starved. “ Please ,” is all you manage to choke out. He hardly acknowledges the word, but you can feel the smirk form on his lips against the shell of your ear.

“I’d fuck the good girl right out of you,” he says. “Fuck you ‘til you’re nothin’ but a dumb little slut.”

“Jesus— Joel .” He's degraded you before, but it’s never been like this, never felt like this. You reach between your bodies and palm his cock in your hand, and a dark laugh leaves him as he helps you.

In a few quick movements, he pulls himself out of his boxers, shoves your panties to the side, and sinks his cock inside of you, filling you so full it hurts . But you don’t care, because there’s nothing more you need than this, and thankfully he understands. Like he always does .

Joel fucks you right then and there, whispering filthy things all the while, and you think he’s always understood you. Maybe even more than you’re able to understand yourself. Older and wiser and gracious—always giving you exactly what you need, exactly what you want.

Before you fall asleep that night, he kisses you softly and asks, “Do you want me to tell you before it happens? To warn you?”

You’re not sure how to answer at first. Because the concept as a whole terrifies you; it’s new and foreign and dangerous. And you think you might need the warning to calm yourself enough to enjoy it.

But you trust Joel. More than anyone else in the world, you know he’ll always keep you safe. You know he’d never do anything to hurt you.

And so, you pull the blankets tighter around your shoulders and say, “No. I want it to be a surprise.”

That night, you dream about a man chasing you through darkness whose hands feel more familiar than your own. You think about it for the next week. Daydreaming at work, while you’re making dinner, while you’re driving to run errands. It’s all you can think about, the only thing that fills the gaps of silence in your day-to-day life.

You wait. And wait. And wait .

Joel tells you Friday night that he’ll have to work overtime this weekend to make up for a lost part shipment. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. Saturday morning he encourages you to sleep in, kisses your forehead before he leaves, tells you he loves you. And despite no inclination from him, you have a feeling that today is the day.

When you wake up a little while later, the sun casts shadows through the blinds, and you notice that Joel’s placed that pink sundress on his side of the bed. Laid it out for you.

You shower and groom yourself, mentally preparing for the moment it finally happens. It has to be today. And if Joel is lucky and planned it out right, he’d find out that you opted out of wearing panties underneath the sundress. He’d find you slick, shaved, aching in anticipation.

He notices your nervous excitement when he comes home from work, late and covered in sweat from a long day. You’re practically bouncing on your heels, having spent the entire day filling the time, waiting for his arrival. The sun had already started to set in the distance - you probably only had about an hour left of the day.

Please, God, let it be today .

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart. Had an electrician cancel last minute, left me scramblin’ to get the project covered. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he muttered into your lips as he greeted you. His arms wrapped around you, his body warm and hot against the thin fabric of your dress.

“That’s okay,” you say. “Everything go to plan other than that?”

“Sure did. Finally finished up that warehouse over on Cherry Street. Figured I’d go out and celebrate.”

You find yourself deflating at the words. Because, usually, Joel celebrating the end of a big project means the involvement of Tommy, too. And if Tommy’s there, then tonight is decidedly not the night.

Joel seems to notice the change in your demeanor. He places his hand on the side of your face and drags his thumb down your jutting bottom lip, releasing it with a wet pop . “Wouldn’t be a celebration unless I had a pretty little girl to buy a drink, now would it?”

Either way, even if it’s not tonight, you know you’ll enjoy the time with him like you always do. So you shelve your disappointment and timidly ask, “Will it be…just the two of us? Did you want to invite anyone else?”

He shakes his head, a playful spark glinting in his warm eyes. “Nah. Just wanna take my baby out. Give me a minute to change and we’ll head out. Sound good?”

You know your nod of approval probably looks too hopeful, too excited, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not with this golden excitement fills you to the brim, the anticipation making your hands tingle.

It only takes Joel ten minutes to change out of his work clothes and into a nice pair of jeans and a flannel, but it feels like forever. He asks you about your day while he drives to your favorite restaurant, and listens intently even though you have nothing interesting to say other than the fact that you’ve changed the curtain on the window above the dining room table.

He opens the car door for you and holds your hand as he directs you through the crowd at the restaurant, and orders for you when the waiter comes over. Even though you get the same thing every time, the gesture makes you feel small and safe and cared for.

You drink a glass of wine, and he tries out some sort of hoppy beer. Joel tells you about a song he heard on the radio that he wants to learn on guitar, but while you try to listen all you can think about is what comes after this.

A million thoughts run rampant through your head. He hasn’t said anything about it, hasn’t given you any hints besides laying the sundress out for you, but the rush of it all weighs heavy on your chest. Paired with the lowered inhibitions from the wine and you interrupt him to say, “Joel. Can you just…can you tell me? I changed my mind. I want to know so bad.”

That playfulness returns to his eyes. He tilts his head the smallest bit and leans over the table to hear your whispered words. “Tell you what?”

“You know ,” you insist. “Don’t make me say it here.” Despite the embarrassment that climbs your cheeks as you listen to the chatter around you, you can’t wipe the grin from your face. You try to hide it behind your hand instead.

“Can’t say I know what you’re gettin’ at here, girl,” he says. But that knowing smirk says otherwise. You can see the challenge in his eyes, the push for you to ask the question you’ve been swallowing down all night.

Folding your arms on the edge of the table, you lean in as close as you can and ask so softly, “Are you taking me to the woods tonight?”

He smiles—a big, toothy show of enjoyment, and leans back in the booth. Joel’s big, you’ve always known it…but seeing him now, shoulders broad and rugged, arms straining beneath the cotton sleeves of his flannel… God , he makes you weak. You can feel yourself flush beneath his scrutinization. Can feel the familiar stickiness of your arousal begin to gather between your legs, too. “An’ why would I do that, sweetheart? Ain’t nothin’ out there for a little thing like you.”

The wine is sweet on your tongue as you take the last sip and shrug casually, pretending as if your hands don’t tremble with anticipation. You try to put on a show of confidence. “Never know,” you say. “Could be a big, bad wolf out there that needs hunting down.”

Joel laughs at that, but he’s waving down the next waiter he sees for the check.

When you leave the restaurant, you realize now the sun has fully set and the darkness has descended. The moon hands high in the sky, the only illumination granted apart from the headlight of Joel’s truck. He helps you into the passenger side and buckles you in, hands gentle and caring, always taking care of you.

Pressing a kiss to your shoulder, he asks a single-word question. One you know is likely equally for his comfort as it is yours. “Okay?”

You are. Despite the fear that begins to rise in your chest, knowing the impending events likely to unfold, despite the shadows and the traversing of the unknown, you know that you’ll always be safe with Joel. “I’m good,” you promise.

He drives for far longer than you expect. Past every stoplight, outside of the city limits, weaving through the backroads until you’re well and truly lost. Every time you pass a wooded area you think he’ll slow to a stop, but he doesn’t. And every moment fuels the adrenaline coursing through you, ratcheting both your panic and excitement to immeasurable heights.

When he does finally stop, pulling off to the side of a road you swear you’ve never been down before, your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears.

He pulls the key from the ignition and the lights cut out, wrapping the both of you in complete darkness. You can make him out just enough, though. Enough to see the predatory look on his face, enough to sense the danger you’ve placed yourself in.

Your mouth goes dry and your brain goes fuzzy as you watch Joel reach into his pants pocket, pulling out a switchblade that glimmers in the moonlight. The small knife makes a snapping noise when it opens, gleaming, taunting you. Excitement buzzed through your body, a nagging voice in the back of your head screaming to run.

“Better get a move on,” Joel whispers, his face shadowed and lips pressed into a grim line. The energy had shifted so quickly that you were uncertain what to do. Even if you did try to run, you doubted that your shaking body would make it very far.

A brooding intensity surrounded Joel, and even though he barely moved to reach back and grab something out of the back seat, the air still felt tense with a silent warning. In his free hand was a gas mask, worn and frayed. The round, glass eye lenses were clouded, displaying its years of disuse. He reached up with one hand to slip the mask down his face, leaving only his eyes revealed.

The white-hot heat that was burning through your veins somehow ignited even further when he finally locked eyes with you. Joel’s eyes were narrowed, carrying a different energy behind them; one that was full of mischief and lust. The moment lasted for a couple of beats…

One, two, three…

And then Joel’s hand snapped out, reaching rapidly to lock around your wrist. Thinking, breathing; none of it mattered. The only thing on your mind was running, some animalistic survival instinct that you didn’t know still existed within you taking over. Your wrist easily slipped out of his grip as you flung open the car door, escaping Joel and running into the dark forest.

There was a chill in the air that made your breath fan out in front of you while you ran, your heavy footsteps practically echoing through the woods. Every couple of moments you would stop and glance around, attempting to see through the endless rows of trees. You didn’t see anything and only heard the sound of your own breathing.

Joel could be scary when he wanted to. Like that one time, a couple weeks into knowing him. Some asshole had followed you around the grocery store late one evening, trailing behind aisle after aisle until your hands were shaking in fear. Joel was one of the only people you had befriended in town since you were new to the area.

He’d showed up five minutes after you’d called him, despite the fact that you knew he lived over ten minutes away. Joel approached the man, and you were grateful that you weren’t the one he was speaking to. Despite not hearing his words from where you were standing, you could see the dark anger on his face, a look that made your blood run cold.

The guy who was following you left immediately after, scurrying off with his tail between his legs. Joel followed you home in his truck even though your apartment was on the other side of town. He’d never been scary to you .

Until now.

Joel’s body came out of nowhere, grabbing you and yanking you against him. The switchblade pressed onto your throat, your heartbeat pounding against the cold metal. You couldn’t see Joel since his vice-grip had your back pushed on his chest.

“You call that running?” he asked, letting his fingers skate down the skin of your thigh, just under the low cut of your sundress. His calloused fingertips caught against your soft skin, raising higher and higher.

“I think you wanted me to catch you. Here you are, lettin’ me rub on you like the little slut I knew you were. I haven’t even properly touched you yet, but you’re already spreading your legs for me.”

Your face warmed at his degrading words. He was right. The excitement of the story wasn’t only the anticipation, but it was the thrill of the hunt. As much as you wanted Joel to touch you, to make your vision blur just from using his fingers, you knew you couldn’t give in so easily.

With all of your strength, you push away both of his hands, ripping out of his grip. He reached down to grab you but you snatched his shirt instead, pulling at it fiercely in an attempt to dodge under him. You heard the fabric rip, but you were too afraid to really acknowledge it.

You took it as an opportunity to escape, dodging Joel’s grasp. You wasted no time in steadying yourself before sprinting away, only sparing a quick glance back to see Joel. His shirt was half ripped, the gas mask blocking any form of expression on his face.

“Damn, baby,” Joel spoke. He stood, shrugging off his flannel before using the switchblade to finish ripping the fabric of his shirt. “If you wanted me to get naked, you should’ve just said so.”

As much as you wanted to watch the way Joel’s chest flexed in the moonlight, you couldn’t handle any distractions. You had to run.

And you did run for what felt like hours. By the time you stopped for a moment, your heartbeat was in your throat and you could feel a slick mess building between your thighs. Your legs were speckled with dirt and pieces of leaves from the way you were kneeling on the ground, searching for Joel.

You didn’t see anything extraordinary through the branches of the forest, but you heard something. A snap.

It was enough to get you back on your feet in an attempt to flee.

You couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. Though your eyes betrayed you, you could sense his closeness, could sense the space between you lessening with each passing moment. Sweat beads at your hairline and your panting echoes between the trees.

The cracking sound of wood beneath his heavy work boots cuts through the deafening silence, and you turn abruptly and throw yourself in the opposite direction. But Joel’s fast, too fast .

He catches up to you in a second, and you know you won’t get lucky twice, yet still you try. You push your legs as hard as you can, running as fast as you can, trying to navigate the uneven terrain.

Joel’s fingertips grasp your shoulder, and you pull away from him so violently you lose your balance, scraping your knees against the rough forest floor.

You quickly turn onto your back, kicking yourself away from him, trying to see through the thick fog of terror in your mind. His slow breaths sound mechanical through the gas mask’s respirator. He looms over you menacingly, looking every bit the wicked man you know he can be.

His shoulders rise and fall slowly, his breaths even while you struggle to catch yours. He tilts his head, a predator indulging in the chase.

And you know right then that you’ve been caught. Stuck in the spider’s web with no hope of extraction. Your voice shakes when you speak. “Joel?”

There’s no softness in him now. None of that gentle ease he always has with you. He lowers himself to the ground, knees on either side of your hips, and grabs for your hands.

You struggle against his hold, even knowing it’s useless. He wraps a calloused palm around your wrists and squeezes tight, and when you buck your hips up against him, trying to wiggle out from beneath his heavy weight, it serves no purpose but to further diminish the little energy remaining in your weary limbs.

Joel raises your arms above your head, pushing your too-sensitive skin deep into the earth, trapping you in place. You can hear the clicking of his tongue behind the mask. “Stupid little girl,” he says. “Never had a chance. Did you?”

His voice is muffled, deeper. You know it’s Joel. Behind the fear, behind the adrenaline, you know it’s him. But it doesn’t sound like him, not in the way you’re so accustomed to, and it sends a chill down your spine.

He adjusts his position, sliding down your legs just enough to grip the bottom of your dirt-stained sundress and rip it upwards. The air feels like ice against your center, slick with your arousal. You clit pulses with need, despite the way you still fight him, struggling nonsensically in his tight hold. “Look at how fuckin’ wet you are, baby,” he says. “Haven’t even touched you yet an’ that pretty pussy’s just fuckin’ crying for it, ain’t she?”

Your spine bends, arching off the ground. The sounds that leave your mouth are animalistic, a desperate whimpering, a wanton need.

And then suddenly his hand is tangled in your hair, pulling hard at the roots, holding your head up just enough to witness your exposure. “I said look ,” Joel grits out. “Want you to watch just how fuckin’ selfish she is. You listenin’ to me?”

“Yes— yes, ” you choke out. The muscles in your neck strain to keep your head held high enough to see the moment he lets go of your hair. But you heard him loud and clear, and you do just as he says.

His hand slips between your legs, and you fight the urge to let squeeze your eyes shut as his fingers slide over your clit. He circles it roughly and you can feel yourself clench around nothing, your body begging to be filled, begging for Joel . He uses the perfect amount of pressure, deft fingers moving fast, and it takes less than a minute before that familiar warmth begins to trickle in.

But you want more, you always want more, and so you find yourself lifting your hips upwards, trying to shift his hand lower, trying to let him know right where you need him most.

Joel laughs. A sick, maniacal sound that sends a cold flood of terror through you. “See? What’d I say? Fuckin’ greedy ,” he says. You know it’s meant to be an insult, but there’s a strange fondness as he says it. An undertone of worship.

You sigh out his name, unable to form another word, forgetting all else that came before this moment, disregarding all things that may come after. All that matters is this, all that matters is him .

“She wants it so bad,” he murmurs. “An’ I’m gonna give it to her.” His movements are cruel and almost painful as he turns you over, pulling your hips out from under him. Joel shifts your wrists to his other hand and sets them against the small of your back, using his free hand to force your head down. The earthy smell of decaying leaves greets you, and you greedily suck in cold breaths of air, trying to will your heart to slow its racing.

You can’t see his movements but you can feel him shift behind you, and a second later can hear the familiar clink of his belt buckle and the swish as he rips it from the loops of his jeans. The bite of leather is harsh as he winds it around your wrists, tightening it in a familiar, practiced way.

“Joel,” you breathe out. It sounds like a plea in your ears, and maybe it is. Because everything is too much, too intense . You need all of him, you think. Need the wickedness, that dark thing he’s been hiding all this time. But you need your Joel, too. The one who buckles you in, who kisses your forehead before he leaves for work in the morning. The one you know will always keep you safe, even when he defiles you. “ Joel ,” you say again.

His hands freeze on your hips, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he leans over and presses his cheek to yours. He waits for you to speak, giving you as long as you need to sort through the heightened emotions.

Your brain feels like mush and you struggle to form a coherent thought that’s more than one or two words strung together. You know you’re terrified. But you know, too, that you don’t want him to stop. And so all you manage to say is a barely audible, “I love you.”

He cradles your head in his hand, thumb stroking gently over your temple. And then he runs his nose over the curve of your jaw, and though he doesn’t say it, doesn’t break the spell he’s so carefully created in order to indulge your wildest fantasies, you know that no one has ever loved anyone the way that Joel Miller loves you.

But just as quickly as that gentleness appeared, it vanishes into nothing like the fog of your breath in the cold air.

“Gonna show you what happens when little girls roam into the woods,” he says. You can feel his erection as he presses it against you, heavier and harder than you think it’s ever been before. “Can try an’ hunt down the big bad wolf all you want. But if he catches you …”

You’re a trembling mess in his strong hands. His words are the only beacon keeping you grounded, you’re certain of it.

The metal teeth of his zipper grate as he pulls it down and undoes the button of his jeans, pulling his cock out. He slides the head through your arousal, coating himself in your slick. “Just know, whatever he decides to do with you is gonna hurt .”

And then he’s pushing his length into you in one smooth movement, leaving you no time to adjust to the size of him. The stretch is painful and foreboding, every muscle in your body tensing up at the impact. “ Fuck— oh my God —”

“Can pray all you want, but there’s no one out here to save you,” he spits. Joel doesn’t give you a single second to breathe before he’s rocking his hips into you, setting a punishing pace. You can feel his cock throb inside you, can feel that he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

You grit your teeth against the pain of it, fingers flexing in his grip. “ Joel —I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can, baby,” he says, voice low and echoing. “I know you can. So shut up and fuckin’ take it.” He leans over you, pressing the side of your face into the ground. You can taste moss and earth but with each thrust, the pain is quickly subsiding, replaced instead with a blinding pleasure.

That warmth builds again, coiling around your spine. Pressure builds quickly and you can feel yourself dripping around him, making a mess of the coarse hair above his cock. “Joel— fuck .”

He reaches on hand around your hip, easily finding your clit and strumming it with swift, practiced movements. You clench around him and he lets out a deep groan in response. When he leans forward and tells you, “Open your mouth,” you do so immediately, brain fuzzy and overstimulated, unwilling to do anything unless he tells you to.

Joel slides two of his fingers into your mouth and shoves them so far down you nearly choke. It’s instinctual when you close your swollen lips around him and suck.

You can hear the smile in his words as he speaks. “There you go,” he mutters. “Told you how this would go, didn’t I? Told you what would happen. Nothin’ but a dumb little slut for me now, baby, hm? Yeah?”

All you can do is nod, unable to form a single coherent thought. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, almost unexpected. It washes through you, electricity dancing beneath your prickling skin. Your moans reverberate through the trees, and you’re suddenly glad he’s driven you so far out so no one can hear you.

“Oh, she likes that ,” Joel says, talking you through it, circling your clit and fucking into you a little harder. “Likes the way it feels to be all full’a me, hm? Yeah, there you go. Gonna give this pretty pussy just what she needs.”

His rhythm falters, staggering just the smallest bit. And while he’s just given you the best orgasm of your fucking life, there’s something about this that makes you feel finally satisfied, full in a way you’ve never been before.

The moment he bottoms out inside of you, Joel turns you on your back and pulls the mask off of his face. His cheeks are flushed and rosy, but there’s a sense of completion in his eyes that you’re sure is mirrored in your own. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose.

And all you can say is, “Oh my God.”

Joel laughs. It’s one of those full, good-natured belly laughs. Your favorite kind. “Well? Was I better than your book?”

You cover your face with your hands, muffling your giggles between your fingers. “Much better.”

908 notes · View notes

filthyjoelslvr · 13 days ago

Text

The Other Woman (2)

part 1 | part 3 | part 4

Content: Jackson! Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader

Synop: Everything with Tommy felt right. He loved you with a quiet strength, steady and true — showing you a kind of tenderness you never believed you deserved. With him, you found peace, safety, even hope.

But then Joel comes back.

Suddenly, the world tilts. He's softer now, raw in a way you've only imagined — arms open, heart bared, and eyes full of everything he never said before. It's everything you ever wanted... just from the wrong man, at the wrong time.

Now you're standing between the comfort of what you have and the chaos of what your heart still aches for.

Warnings: cheating, heartbreak, mentions of death, mean joel (manipulative), pinv, oral (f! receiving), no ellie, degradation, guilty sex (consensual), alcohol consumption, (sorry if I forget something)

Word Count: 10k

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: ugh!!!! i hope y'all like part 2. I'm sorry if i make y'all maddddd. BUT DON'T WORRY #teamtommy to the endddd!!! I am so sorry but it got too long.. there will have to be a part 3. BUT happy ending in the next part (:

Five days.

That’s how long it had been since Joel showed up on your doorstep.

Five days since his hands slipped under your sweater. Since your lips met his like they’d never forgotten the shape. Since you kissed him like you still belonged to him — and then shoved him out the door like you didn’t.

You hadn’t told Tommy.

What were you supposed to say?

That Joel came to you bruised and broken and begging — and you let him break you all over again?

That you didn’t stop him soon enough?

That you didn’t want to stop him?

So, you didn’t say anything.

And when Tommy showed up at your place the next evening, smiling that soft, boyish smile, carrying dinner he said he’d made too much of — you let him in.

You let him hold you like you were still someone good.

You went back to his place that night. Slept in his bed.

Not because you were ready. Not because it felt right. But because your own home still smelled like Joel.

Tommy held you with quiet affection, curled around your back in the dark like you were something to protect. And you let him. Even though you didn’t deserve it.

You let him wrap himself around you like warmth — while inside, you were still cold.

You hated waking up in Tommy’s bed.

Not because it wasn’t warm. Not because it wasn’t safe. Not because he didn’t hold you like you were something sacred.

But because it was everything it should’ve been — and still it didn’t feel right.

The sheets smelled like cedar and his cologne. The air was still. Soft. But your chest was tight. Your throat, dry.

Outside, you could hear the quiet hum of the morning starting. A few voices in the street. And from the kitchen — Tommy, humming.

A low, absent tune. Aimless, gentle. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s at peace. When he thinks everything’s okay.

You turned your face into the pillow, breath catching in your throat. Your stomach twisted.

How could he sound so calm when you were still unraveling?

Your lips still remembered Joel.

Still remembered the taste of him — the way he had said “Stop me” like he didn’t want to be stopped. The way you didn’t stop him fast enough.

Wrapped in comfort that felt like a lie, you pulled the blanket over your shoulders and wished you could crawl out of your own skin.

It was easier to keep pretending. To hide.

Tommy stepped into the room with a glass of fresh juice — orange, maybe. You didn’t even look at it. You flinched when he handed it to you.

Not visibly. Not enough for him to suspect anything. But he paused anyway. His eyes scanned your face.

“You okay?” he asked, soft, sitting down next to you — rubbing soft circles on the small of your back.

Your voice barely came out. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Half-truths were easier to swallow than the truth: You weren’t tired from sleep. You were tired from hiding. From holding it all inside.

From the way your heart twisted every time Tommy touched you, and it didn’t feel like redemption. Just… forgiveness you didn’t deserve.

You sipped the juice. It was sweet. Cold. Too bright against the sick feeling in your gut.

He smiled — that quiet, simple smile he always gave you.

And in that moment, you hated yourself more than you ever had.

You care for Tommy. God, you really do.

He’s steady. He’s kind. He doesn’t take more than you offer, doesn’t reach for pieces of you you’re not ready to give. He waits. Listens. Looks at you like you're not broken. Like you’re someone worth choosing.

And for a while — before Joel came back — you thought maybe this was it. Maybe this was what a relationship was supposed to feel like: quiet, simple, safe.

You were close. So close to loving him.

You could feel it in the way your heart settled when he walked in a room. In how he never made you feel like too much or not enough. In how you’d started to dream about a future, and Tommy was always there in it — laughing, sunlit, whole.

But then Joel came back.

And nothing felt simple anymore.

He stood in your doorway like a ghost, murmuring that he left her — his wife — because he couldn’t keep pretending.

Because he needed you.

And suddenly everything you’d built with Tommy started to splinter, like it had been made of paper and Joel was the match.

You’ve always loved Joel. But it wasn’t like with Tommy. That love was different. It was heavier. Darker. Hungrier.

It was born in quiet moments and secret glances — in pain, in absence, in every time he pushed you away and you still reached for him.

It was a love you survived, not one you grew in.

And now he’s here — the version of him you used to beg for in silence — offering you everything you once wanted now that you’ve finally moved on.

And you don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to feel.

You're happy with Tommy.

You really are.

But part of you still aches for Joel — the version of yourself that only exists when he’s near.

And that part of you is loud.

Too loud.

You didn’t go back home for the rest the week after Tommy came with dinner. Not really.

You stopped by once or twice — just long enough to swap out clothes and pretend you had something to grab. Toothbrush. Hairbrush. A new sweater. A different book.

Every time you stepped through that front door, your chest tightened. Anxiety trickling through your body.

The air felt different now. Heavier. Like Joel had left something behind in the walls. In the silence. In you.

You didn’t stay long.

Tommy didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. Just opened his home like it was yours, like it was nothing to him that you never seemed to leave.

The third night, you asked him — voice light, too casual — if he’d come with you next time.

“Why?” he’d asked, laughing gently. “You afraid of your own place now?”

You smiled. Bit your lip. Looked away. Yeah, you are afraid.

“I just like having you around.”

He grinned. That soft, easy grin. The one that never made your stomach twist.

“Well,” he said, slinging his arm over your shoulders, “I like bein’ around.”

And that was it. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know that every time he left you alone in a room, your mind went spiraling back to Joel’s voice at the door. Joel’s hands under your clothes. Joel whispering Stop me.

He didn’t know that it wasn’t your house you were afraid of.

It was Joel showing up again.

Because if he did, you didn’t trust yourself to tell him no twice.

And you hated that.

You hated how weak you felt. How part of you still longed for a man who only wanted you when it was too late.

Tommy… he was different. He made the world quiet. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe.

You liked the way he kissed your temple instead of your throat. The way he asked before touching you, even now.

You liked waking up in the morning and knowing what version of him you were going to get. Liked knowing he’d never make you beg just to be chosen.

And the more time you spent wrapped in his presence, the more terrified you became of losing it.

So you stayed.

You stayed in his bed, in his arms, in his life — because if Joel knocked on your door again, you didn’t want to be there to answer it.

You wanted Tommy.

You just didn’t know how to keep him without the truth breaking everything.

You had been at Tommy's for a week now. Haven’t been to your own place since you made him come with you to grab a bag of clothes.

You were washing dishes at the sink, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sun just beginning to set through the windows when Tommy leaned in the doorway behind you — one shoulder resting against the frame, arms folded like he was keeping something warm just by holding it in.

“They’re throwing a dance in the square tonight,” he said, like it wasn’t a big thing, like he hadn’t been thinking about it for days.

You glanced over your shoulder. “A dance?” You remembered seeing the flyers while out on the town.

He nodded. “Adults only. Some folks are bringing whiskey, even. One of the towns bands are playing — says they know old George Strait and everything.”

You smiled softly, drying your hands on the towel. “That sounds…”

Terrifying. Dangerous. A place Joel could be.

“...sweet,” you finished, because you didn’t know what else to say.

Tommy stepped closer, smiling like he already knew you were pulling away before your body had moved. “I was thinkin’ we could go. Get out of the house together.”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, looking down at the sink, like maybe the dishes had something better to offer. “Feels like kind of a crowd. I was actually thinking we could just stay in. Light a fire. Cuddle up under the blankets.”

His hand found your waist — warm, steady. “We do that every night.”

You leaned into him a little despite yourself. “Exactly.”

He chuckled, low and fond. “Darlin’, I wanna take you out. Wanna show you off a little.”

You froze at that. The words clung to you.

Show you off.

Like you were something to be proud of. Not a secret. Not a second choice.

You turned to him slowly. “You mean that?”

“Hell yeah, I do. Ain’t no one in this town who wouldn’t be jealous of me tonight.” He kissed your cheek, his voice a breath there. “Please. Let’s just stop by and see what it’s like and we’ll leave if you want.”

“Alright.” You caved rolling your eyes. He planted a wet kiss on your cheek — to say thank you — and laughed as you whipped it away with a groan. "I'll go get ready."

Your blouse was soft cotton, white in color, with delicate lace skimming the collar and pearl buttons you fumbled over more than once. You tucked it into your best denim — the dark, high-waisted pair that hugged you like memory — and slid into your old boots, worn but still good, dust from summer still clinging in the creases. You tied your hair back with a ribbon the shade of the sky just before it rains.

When you stepped outside, Tommy looked like he forgot how to breathe. He took his hat off slow, let his eyes trace you from head to toe.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You tryin’ to kill me tonight?”

You laughed, already flustered. “You said you wanted to show me off.”

“Sweetpea,” he said, grin tugging at his lips, “I didn’t say I wanted every man in Jackson lookin’ at my girl like that.”

You blushed. “Be humble.”

“Not a chance,” he said, slipping his hat back on and offering you his arm like it was some kind of promise.

Lanterns hung from tree limbs like slow-drifting fireflies, painting everything gold. The square was alive with the low buzz of voices, soft guitar music weaving through the air like thread, the scent of whiskey and wood smoke drifting thick on the breeze.

Tommy kept you close as he led you through it — hand firm on the small of your back like he was anchoring himself to you. He found you a table near the edge, far enough from the noise to talk, close enough to feel the warmth of the crowd.

He came back with two mason jars — one amber-dark and burning, one lighter, sweet as syrup.

You took a sip and smacked your lips together. “Peach?”

He smiled, sitting beside you, thigh pressed warm to yours. “Peach tea and somethin’ that’ll make it worth your while.”

You nestled in closer. “You trying to get me drunk?”

He tipped his jar to yours. “Only if it means you’ll dance with me later.”

People passed in flickers — patrol buddies, tipsy townsfolk, women who gave you quick, polite smiles — but mostly it was just you two, laughing into the music, sharing food from a single napkin like there was no one else.

You told him about a dream you’d had — something about dinosaurs. He told you about a bar fight he started over a lost bet at a pool table. How he had been arrested that night. You both grinned like fools, sipped your drinks, felt the world slow down.

Then the band shifted. A slow country tune started up — juicy-sweet, aching. The kind of song you only hear after too many drinks and not enough years with the person beside you.

Tommy stood, holding his hand out. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated. Staring at his outstretched palm as if he were asking you to do something dangerous.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just this one.”

You let him pull you in. And the world went quiet.

His hand was warm at your back, his chest solid against yours. He swayed like he’d done it a thousand times. One step, two. Gentle. Familiar. Easy. The kind of dancing you don’t think about — you just feel.

Then, halfway through the song, he leaned back just enough to slip his cowboy hat off his head and settle it gently on yours.

You blinked up at him.

“Damn,” he said, voice low. “You look so adorable in that, I might never take it back.”

You flushed, your heart thudding in your ribs like a caught bird. He leaned in to kiss your cheek, slow and reverent, and you melted.

The music shifted again, and again you stayed — dancing through songs, fast and slow, twirling and laughing, letting him dip you low and pull you in tighter. You danced with his friends. He danced with a little old woman who whispered that you’d better hold onto him tight.

And always, always, his eyes found you. As if even across the room, you were still the only thing he saw.

And in this moment you realized, you really do love Tommy Miller.

Later, when the music quieted and the fire had burned low, you sat on a bench by the edge of the square. His arm was around your waist. Your head on his shoulder. The world around you was spinning and you couldn't walk a few feet without stumbling. You were drunk, but so was Tommy. The kind of drunk that felt warm and comforting, not sad and lonely.

“You have fun?” he asked.

You thought for a long time before answering.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really did.”

And you meant it.

Even if somewhere deep in the back of your mind, a shadow still lingered. Even if you knew — if Joel showed up again, all of this could unravel.

But tonight, you didn’t let that in. Tonight, you let yourself feel loved.

And the walk home was bliss.

It was messy, slurred and stumbling, made of laughter pressed into mouths and kisses that tasted like peach tea and whiskey.

You didn’t make it down one streetlamp-lit block without stopping again.

Every shadow became an excuse to pull him in. Every quiet stretch of sidewalk turned into a stage for one more kiss, another breathless confession you forgot by the time you reached the next porchlight.

“God, you’re somethin’ else,” Tommy murmured against your neck, hands at your waist like they couldn’t find home anywhere else. “You make me feel seventeen again.”

You laughed, spinning from his arms only for him to chase you, grab your hand, and spin you right back into his chest.

“You’re drunk,” you said.

“So are you.” He smirked, planting another sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Mm-hmm.” And still — you kissed him. Hard and soft and then hard again, like your body was trying to carve a memory deep enough to survive whatever came next.

You barely made it through the door.

Boots kicked off, jackets half-shrugged from shoulders, lips still chasing each other like you'd never get enough.

You collapsed into bed together, tangled up in warm sheets and half-buttoned shirts. The room smelled like dust, sweat, and the last breath of autumn.

You lay over him, sitting in his lap, kissing the corner of his lips, his cheek, trailing down his chin to his neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

You smiled, hands wandering down — unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders. “You say that when you’re sober too.”

“Only ‘cause it’s always true.”

Silence stretched, slow and easy.

“I’m glad you made me go.” You said finally, sitting up in his lap.

Tommy’s smile softened. His eyes trailed up and down your body, fingers brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I like seein’ you like that.”

You stared at him for a beat, your chest aching with something you didn’t want to name.

He kept going, voice quieter now — like he was letting you in on something sacred. Hands slipping your pretty blouse down your arms, tossing it to the floor to be forgotten.

“Before you came along, everything felt the same. Every day. Wake up, walk patrol, eat somethin’ cold, sleep in a bed alone. It felt drainin’.”

You said nothing, just listened as he unhooked the clasp keeping your bra intact.

“I think I was gettin’ tired. Like… not body-tired. Soul-tired. Like the world was movin’ and I was just watchin’ it go.”

His thumb brushed over your nipples — the buds swelling from the gesture. “And then you showed up. With that smile and that smart mouth. The way you look at me like I’m worth somethin’.”

He sat up, lips ghosting over the soft part of your breasts — leaving a tender trail of kisses.

“You make the days matter.” He said between breaths. “Even when we don’t do nothin’ special. Even when we’re just here, holdin’ each other."

You tried to speak, but nothing came. The words sat in your throat, too full of everything you weren’t saying. Overcome by the swell in your heart and the pleasure running down your spine.

Tommy pressed a kiss to your lips now. “This week’s meant more to me than I know how to say.”

You’re tongue slipped into his hot mouth, his teeth parting — letting you in. Tasting him, exploring every wet part of him. His hands trailed down your bare back, grasping at the denim that covered your ass. You let out soft pants when he started moving your hips — grinding you into him. You could feel how hard he already was through his jeans.

Your hands tangled in his hair as he slips his hand down your jeans — sliding his finger between your folds. A low growl comes somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fuck.. already so wet.” He groaned, rubbing soft circles over your aching clit. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

The words sank into you. You froze. “Why’d you say that?”

He was quiet. Slipping of his finger into you, filling you up. Pretending to occupy his mouth with the swell of your breast between his teeth. Licking and trailing circles around the curve before sucking slightly.

It should’ve made you beg for more but instead you shifted. “Tommy.”

He groaned, entering a second finger now — his thrusts faulty, whereas they were normally steady and determined. “I’m drunk. Ignore me.”

“No.” You pushed his arm away — his fingers now leaving you empty. You sat up slightly, forcing him to look at you. Your heart suddenly alert. “You’re hiding something.”

He sighed. Closed his eyes for a beat too long.

“I gotta leave tomorrow,” he said finally.

Your breath caught.

“What do you mean, Tommy?”

“Supply run. It’s a week out, maybe a little more. South end of the state. Just— routine stuff.”

You stared at him, like the room had gone too still, too cold.

“A week?” you repeated. “When did you find out about this?”

“Five days ago.” He whispered as he hung his head. Ashamed.

“You knew about this for days?!” Your voice cracked.

“I was gonna tell you—“

“Oh yeah, when?” You seethed. “You had plenty of chances. And you dragged me out tonight like nothing was coming.”

“I didn’t wanna ruin the night.”

“So you lied.”

He sat up — trying to reach for you as you crawled off his lap. “I didn’t lie. I just… waited.”

Tears burned the back of your eyes before you could stop them. You pushed away from him, curling into your side of the bed, throat tight and raw.

“Get someone else to go.” You whispered, looking away from him now.

He froze. “What?”

“I said get someone else to go. You can’t leave.”

His voice broke. “Baby…”

“You can’t, Tommy.”

He reached for you, but you turned your back to him, tears soaking the pillow now. You didn’t wipe them away.

“I can’t go back home. I can’t be alone again. I can’t—” your voice gave out. “You don’t understand.”

He sat there, helpless. “It’s just a week.”

You shook your head. “It’s not about the time. It’s about the fact that you won’t be here. That I’ll be at my house…alone.”

He was quiet. You could feel the guilt and confusion setting into his bones. He didn’t understand what you were so afraid of.

“I don’t have a choice. It’s my job,” he said softly. “You know I’d stay if I could.”

But you didn’t answer.

Because the thing clawing inside your chest wasn’t just fear — it was truth. And you knew that once he walked out that door… you might not be strong enough to stop what came next.

The light was gray when it filtered through the blinds, dull and heavy — the kind of sky that warned of rain but didn’t deliver it. Just hung there, waiting.

You were already out of bed, dressed, pacing the hallway with your bag half-zipped and heart full of heat you didn’t know where to put.

Tommy sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together like maybe the friction would burn the distance between you down.

“Can you just… talk to me?” he asked, voice soft, but strained. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned your back to him and ducked into the bathroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing your things — your toothbrush, your perfume, that stupid hairbow you wore for him the night before.

You heard his footsteps in the hallway, stopping just outside the door. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

Your fingers moved faster. Shoving things into your bag like they might shatter if you gave them a second look.

“I was gonna tell you last night,” he continued, voice thin. “But we were havin’ such a good time. I didn’t wanna ruin it.”

You yanked the zipper closed.

“It’s not like I wanted to leave.”

You brushed past him, the hallway too narrow, the air too tight. He reached for your hand, but you pulled it away like his touch stung.

“Sweetheart, come on. Just look at me.”

Still nothing.

He followed you into the living room, watching you grab the blanket you left on the couch, the book you forgot on the side table, your sweater that still smelled like last week’s firewood.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?”

You kept moving. Like silence was the only shield you had left.

Finally, after another long stretch of it — silence so thick it buzzed — he let out a slow, bitter breath.

“Alright,” he muttered, turning away. “Fine.”

He walked into the bedroom, and then you heard it: the low rumble of his pack being unzipped. The dull clink of supplies being tossed in. Boots thudding on the floor. A water canteen refilling in the kitchen sink.

That’s when the anger hit you again.

He was really going.

He wasn’t going to beg anymore. He was preparing to leave — like that wasn’t the most unforgivable thing he could do right now.

You stood in the doorway of the living room, watching him stuff the last of his things into the weather-worn pack. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbow. His brow was drawn tight, jaw clenched.

You swallowed hard. “You’re just gonna pack up like that? Not even try again?”

He turned, angry and frustrated now. “What do you want me to do?”

“Not pack, for one,” you snapped. “Not act like this is okay.”

“I don’t have a fuckin' choice—”

“You do, Tommy.”

He shook his head slowly. “My god.” He let out a frustrated chuckle. “This is my damn job. I go, I keep people safe. I come back. What do you not understand.”

You crossed your arms. “You don’t get to say that. You knew for days and said nothing. You let me fall asleep in your bed like everything was fine.”

“I wanted to give us one more night that wasn’t heavy,” he said, voice cracking a little. Softer now. “I wanted to hold you without you lookin’ at me like I already left.”

You blinked hard, the pressure building behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He stepped closer. “It’s just a week.”

“It’s never just a week,” you shot back. “My house feels wrong. Empty. It… echoes.”

He tried to reach for you again. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

But you stepped back.

Tears gathered and spilled before you could catch them. “You don’t know what it’s like. What it does to me.”

“Then tell me,” he pleaded. “Help me understand.”

You turned away, voice small. “I don’t want to say it out loud.”

“Why not?”

Because saying it out loud makes it real. Because he’ll come if you’re alone. Because you might not stop him this time.

But you didn’t say any of that.

Instead, you walked to the door, gripping the knob with white knuckles, your heart shattering under the weight of what you still couldn’t admit.

Tommy’s voice came again, broken now. “You’re really not gonna say goodbye?”

You paused. Slowly turned to face him.

“Look. I swear, I really am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I know I should’ve. I know I was wrong.” His eyes were full of something raw — the same eyes that had looked at you under the lanterns, full of joy and promise. Now they were cloudy. Afraid. But still Tommy’s.

You looked him up and down. The way his shirt clung to him. The pack slung over his shoulder. The hands that had held you all week now weighed down by something else.

You stepped closer.

And kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Fierce like the night you first realized you needed him.

When you pulled away, you wrapped your arms around him as he pulled you into his chest.

“You better come back in one fucking piece, Tommy.”

He held you like the world was ending. “I promise,” he whispered. “I’ll be back soon. I swear.”

You nodded — but it didn’t feel like enough.

Then you turned.

And walked out into the cold.

You pushed open the door to your place, and everything hit you at once — the stillness, the stale air, the bed that looked too big.

The ache crawled up your spine like frostbite.

You stood there in the doorway, unable to move. Your chest squeezed tight, your fingers numb.

The house was empty. It was waiting.

And deep in your gut, you knew what it was waiting for.

The first night stretched endlessly before you — a long, hollow echo of absence.

You sat by the window, fingers tracing the rough wood of the frame, eyes fixed on the dark road winding into the distance — wondering if Tommy was looking back, wondering if he missed you as much as you missed him.

The clock ticked past midnight.

You heard the faintest noise, a creak, a rustle — anything — and your heart leapt, dreading a knock, a voice, a sign.

But silence swallowed the night.

You curled into yourself, clutching Tommy’s worn shirt, breathing in the smell of earth and sweat and promise, telling yourself it was only a week — just seven days — but it felt like a lifetime already.

The second night came heavy and slow, your mind spinning wild with memories — how Tommy’s laugh had filled this room, how his hand fit perfectly in yours, how just the sound of his footsteps made you feel relaxed.

You paced the floor, avoiding the shadows, trying not to imagine Joel’s knock on the door.

You hated that your heart still fluttered at the thought — but it was Tommy you craved.

Still, the knock never came.

No voice, no footsteps.

Only silence, thick and unyielding, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

By the third night — you thought you were safe.

You told yourself you’d stop waiting, stop fearing.

You were in another one of Tommy’s shirts, the fabric soft against your skin, a fragile comfort against the cold loneliness.

You let your eyes close, the steady rhythm of your own breath a small anchor in the darkness.

And then—a sound.

A knock.

Soft, hesitant, almost unsure. You thought you had imagined it.

But your heart stuttered and your whole body froze, time slowing to the crawl of his footsteps across the floor.

The door creaked open, and there he was.

Joel.

Tired, yes. Hollow, yes.

But softer than you remembered, stripped of his usual edge.

His eyes met yours, heavy with things left unsaid, and just like that, the fragile walls you’d built around your heart cracked wide open.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t. You just stood in the kitchen, breath shallow, the room suddenly too full, too small.

Joel looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, and the lines in his face — lines you used to trace with your fingertips — had deepened. He looked older. Worn. But not just by time. By grief. By want. By you.

“I didn’t think you’d let me in,” he said softly, his voice rough like gravel beneath rain.

“I really didn’t,” you answered, arms folded over your chest like armor. “You just walked right in.”

He gave a faint nod, eyes falling to the floor between you. “Yeah. I almost didn’t come at all.”

“Why are you here, Joel?”

Silence stretched. You watched him bite the inside of his cheek like he was trying to find the right words — or keep himself from saying the wrong ones.

“I knew you'd be here. Knew Tommy would be gone. I’ve been going crazy,” he said finally, eyes lifting back to yours. “Since that night… since you pushed me out… I’ve been walking through every day like I’m not even real.”

You stayed silent, jaw tight, your fingers curling into the hem of Tommy’s shirt at your thighs.

“I wake up thinkin’ about you,” he continued. “I go to sleep thinkin’ about you. And in between I try to do what I’m supposed to. Try to work. Try to talk to people. But everything feels like I’m underwater. Like I’m not really livin’, just waitin’.”

“Waiting for what?” you asked. You hated the crack in your voice.

His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking. “You. I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

You stepped back a little, spine brushing against the counter. “You don’t get to say that now. Not after everything.”

“I know I don’t deserve it,” Joel said. “I know I messed up. But the truth is— I don’t know how to be without you. You steadied me. You made everything else quiet.”

“Then why didn’t you stay?” you demanded. “Why did it take Tommy being with me for you to even see me?”

His expression twisted, like the words had cut him straight through. “Because I’m not good like Tommy. I’m not easy to love. And I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

You laughed bitterly. “And what — now you think dragging me back into your mess is fair?”

“I don’t know what’s fair,” he admitted. “All I know is that being near you makes the world hurt less. I was holding it all together, but barely. And now…” He exhaled shakily. “Now I feel like I’m falling apart.”

You shook your head, eyes glassy. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me. I miss Tommy so much it hurts. And I’m scared, Joel. I’m scared to be alone in this house because of you. I don’t want to be this version of myself that I am around you — weak, confused, guilty. I love the way I feel with Tommy.”

Joel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I know. And he’s good for you. He sees you. He’s probably the right choice.”

That admission pierced something deep inside you.

“Then why are you here?” you asked again, your voice trembling.

He took a step closer, his voice low but steady now. “Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wonderin’ what it could’ve been like. Because no matter how hard I try to stay away, I keep seein’ you in every damn corner of my mind. Because I’d rather have the pain of bein’ near you and knowin’ you can’t be mine than go another day without your voice in my ears.”

You swallowed hard, body locked in place, every emotion clawing to the surface.

“I don’t know how to stop missin’ you,” he said, breath catching. “You made everything feel real again. You pulled me out of a place I’d been stuck in for years.”

You shook your head, barely able to breathe. “And now you’ve left me stuck in it.”

Joel’s eyes shimmered with something fragile — guilt, maybe. Or just sorrow.

“I’m not here to take you from him,” he said. “I just… I needed you to know. I needed to see you again.”

Your voice was almost a whisper now. “You don’t get to need me.”

He stepped forward again — close now. Too close.

“I know,” he whispered. “But I do. And I always will.”

Silence folded around you both, thick and aching.

Then, softer than breath:

“Sarah was my daughter.”

Everything stopped. The world, the moment, your heartbeat.

You had heard that name before — murmured like a ghost across Joel’s lips on sleepless nights. You’d never asked, never dared.

You stood frozen, eyes locked to his.

“I had her when I was barely more than a kid,” he continued. “She died when the outbreak started. First day. Shot in my arms. And after that… there wasn’t much left of me either.”

Your breath hitched. The room tilted.

“I never told you because I couldn’t say her name out loud without breaking. I still can’t, not really. But you… you make me want to try.”

His voice cracked then. Just a little. Just enough.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak.

You just stood there, staring at him — his shadow stretching across your floor, his grief open and bleeding in the room you thought you’d sealed shut.

And for the first time, you saw him not as the man who walked away. But as the one who’d been running from something far worse than love.

The room had gone impossibly still.

You hadn’t moved since he said her name. Sarah. It echoed in your chest like a ghost you’d never met but always known.

“Why are you telling me this now?” You asked, walking slowly toward the person who's been hiding everything from you since day one.

“Because I want you to know.” Joel sat down on the edge of the couch — your couch, the one where Tommy held you last week, whispering sweet nothings into your ear — and now, here Joel was, holding the shattered pieces of his history like he didn’t know where to set them down.

“She was twelve,” he started again, staring at nothing. “Strong-headed. Funny as hell. Used to draw little cartoons in her notebooks, but she’d get embarrassed if I ever looked.”

His voice softened, hoarse with memory.

“She’d make pancakes on Sundays. Always got the batter everywhere. Said I was too grumpy in the mornings and she had to ‘sweeten me up.’”

You watched his jaw twitch.

“She died the night it all fell apart. There was a soldier… orders to keep people off the road. They didn’t know who was infected. I was beggin’ him not to shoot. But he—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “He shot anyway.”

Tears filled your eyes, slow and burning. You didn’t try to stop them.

Joel cleared his throat, hands tightening on his knees.

“I held her. She bled out in my arms. Cryin’ daddy like she thought I could fix it. And I couldn’t.”

He turned toward you finally, wiping away his lingering tears. You realized then that you had never seen Joel cry and it terrified you — yet comforted you.

“I never told anyone in Jackson. Tommy, he lived it with me, but he doesn’t talk about it either. Thinks it’s his fault for not showin’ up in time to kill the guy. Guess I kinda treated him like it was.”

You whispered, “Tommy couldn’t control what happened, Joel.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. But that was my little girl. I blamed the world. I kept her locked up inside me, like maybe if I never said her name, I could stop feelin’ it.”

You blinked hard, voice quiet. “But I don’t understand. Why did that make you treat me the way you did? Like I was something to use and forget?”

His eyes filled with something sharp and ashamed. He didn’t look away.

“It wasn’t just her,” he said. “Losing Sarah was… the beginning. I didn’t care what happened to me after that. And when the world went to hell — I let it turn me into someone I don’t recognize anymore.”

You tilted your head, heart aching. “What do you mean?”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he said. “Things I ain’t proud of. Things I don’t even wanna say out loud.”

You stayed silent, letting him speak.

“When the outbreak hit, there were no rules. No laws. Just survival. And I was good at survivin’. Real good. I took what I needed. Killed people who didn’t deserve it. Hell, I hurt people who were just tryin’ to keep their own alive.”

He exhaled sharply, as if even remembering it was painful.

“Tommy left me because of it. He couldn’t watch it anymore. Said I was losin’ my soul. And he was right.”

You felt your chest tighten. You thought of Tommy — his warmth, his steadiness. His hidden guilt over his niece. His grief over what his brother had become. The space between them that hadn’t quite closed.

Joel continued. “I stayed that way for years. Hard. Cold. Numb. Until one day I looked in the mirror and couldn’t even stand my own face. So I decided to find him. Not to fix things — I knew I couldn’t — but because I was scared. I was scared of what I’d do next if I didn’t.”

You moved to sit across from him on the floor, legs folded, arms hugging your knees.

“Joel…” Your voice trembled. “That doesn’t change the way you hurt me.”

“I know,” he said, eyes red-rimmed. “I know. You were the only good thing I’d let near me in a long time, and instead of protectin’ that — I tried to push it away. Because I didn’t think I deserved it. I only married Laura 'cause I felt like I had to. Ya know, to seem normal. Thought if I acted like I had a normal life that I'd become normal.”

You blinked hard, staring at the space between your bodies.

“But you didn’t just push it away,” you whispered. “You pulled me in. And then you vanished.”

He leaned forward, voice low.

“Because you were gettin’ too close. And that scared the hell out of me. I didn’t want you to see the man I used to be.”

You wiped a tear from your cheek, frustrated. “I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said. “Or choose me. I just… I needed you to know the truth. I couldn’t let you keep hatin’ me without understandin’ what I’ve been runnin’ from.”

You looked at him — really looked. The guilt etched in his face, the war in his eyes.

And suddenly it made sense. Why you couldn’t shut the door on him. Why part of you, deep down, still ached for him — even when you had someone good, someone kind.

Because Joel was broken. And you related to his pain.

The silence that followed Joel’s confession was unbearable. Not for its emptiness, but because of everything it held.

You were still sitting on the floor, knees drawn to your chest, watching him. His hands were loose now, resting on his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them. His face was open — so unlike the man who used to look at you like you were something temporary. Now, he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

“I don’t hate you,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I could never hate you, Joel. No matter how hard I tried.”

He blinked, like he didn’t believe it. Or didn’t think he deserved to hear it.

“I’ve tried to be mad at you. To move on. To forget.” You swallowed thickly. “But I don’t know how to quit you.”

His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath. And then he moved — slowly, carefully — and lowered himself beside you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away.

His hand reached for yours, hesitant, brushing your knuckles. The warmth of him there made your throat close up.

“I think about you every goddamn day,” he said quietly. “You haunt me.”

You looked at him, heart aching. “You left a hole in me, Joel. And I tried to fill it with someone good. Someone who makes me feel like I'm a person. But you—”

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper against your cheek.

“Bad people always find bad people. That’s why you end up in my arms, again and again.”

The words pierced you, sharp and clean.

You shook your head. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” he murmured. “You feel it too. That part of you that thinks you don’t deserve someone like Tommy.”

You hated how right he sounded. How deep those words struck. Because hadn’t that thought lived in the back of your mind for days now? That someone like Tommy — soft, good, forgiving — deserved more than the wreckage of a woman who kept letting the past in?

Joel’s voice was like gravel in your ear, low and raw.

“Tommy deserves better than people like us.”

The ache inside your chest cracked wide open. You looked away, but he caught your chin, made you face him.

“No one ever held me the way you did,” he whispered. “Not even before the world fell apart. And now that I’ve had it, I don’t know how to let it go.”

His lips hovered just above yours.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he said. “But neither does he.”

That shattered something in you.

You should’ve stood up. Should’ve said no. Should’ve walked out and let the cold night snap you back to your senses.

But instead, you leaned in.

Because you were tired. Because you were lonely. Because you missed the way he used to look at you like you were the only person left alive in the ruins.

And because, deep down, you believed him.

You believed you didn’t deserve Tommy.

So you gave in — slowly, quietly, shamefully.

You let Joel kiss you like you were his, and maybe you were. Not because you wanted to be. But because some broken part of you didn’t know how to be anything else.

Joel's hand found your cheek first — rough and warm, trembling slightly as he cupped your face like he was holding something precious he hadn’t earned. His thumb grazed a tear that had slipped free, and you hated how your skin leaned into it, how your body betrayed the part of you that still wanted to be good.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, less cautious, less kind. Like the truth was out and nothing needed to be hidden anymore. Your hands found the collar of his shirt, twisting into the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring you to this moment. He pulled you into his lap, and you let him, breath hitching as your knees found either side of his hips. It was familiar — dangerously so.

His mouth trailed down the curve of your jaw, across your neck, where your pulse pounded, hot and loud. You tilted your head back, lips parted, eyes shut — like if you didn’t look at him, this wouldn’t be real.

“You always come back to me,” he murmured against your throat, voice gravel-worn and low.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The tears were falling faster now, warm streaks down your cheeks as his hands explored the outline of your waist, your hips, the small of your back. His touch wasn’t rushed — wasn’t rough. It was worshipful. Like you were something holy and ruined at the same time.

“I’m no good for you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven. “But I think you already knew that.”

You nodded faintly, unable to find words. The shame in your stomach twisted itself into knots, but your body wouldn’t listen. It leaned into him, into the heat, the need, the ache that only he ever seemed to understand.

He stood, carrying you with him like you weighed nothing. And when he laid you down in your bed — you couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible.

Joel’s hands paused at your ribs. “Me too.”

But neither of you stopped.

Because sometimes sorrow feels like hunger. And sometimes guilt wears the mask of longing. And in that moment, you didn’t feel strong enough to tell the difference.

Joel steadied himself between your legs, grinding his clothed body against yours — like he needed you there and now. Your nails dug into his flannelled shirt, cursing at the friction. Heat pooling between your legs.

His lips crashed into yours, mouth parting in hunger as if he were trying to eat you alive. The kiss was rough, hard, like he was in a hurry — or like he was afraid to lose it. Your tongue found its way to his — the faint taste of tobacco lingering along with something sweet.

His hand slowly trailed down your chest, feeling your nipples already peaking through the fabric of Tommy’s shirt — you weren’t wearing a bra — and tugged your underwear down to your knees. You kicked them off in one quick motion, desperate to get them out of the way.

Joel’s fingers lightly slapped against your entrance, your juices creating sick strands each time he moved them back. Webs of white snapping, causing him to pull away from you, cursing under his breath as he watched the way your wetness tethered his fingers to you.

He pushed his middle and ring finger slowly past your entrance, groaning at the way you tightened around them. You’re so wet that they glide easily in until he’s knuckles deep with no restraint.

“Fuck— look at that.” He whispers, dragging his fingers achingly back out — admiring the way he's already drenched with you.

“Joel please—” You beg, squirming at the loss — at the way you now feel colder. Empty.

Joel gives you a glance — eyes hazed over and full of mischief — before he buries his face between your legs, biting at the fleshy skin on your inner thighs. He digs his fingers into the backs of your knees — forcing them to bend around the palms of his hands — and pulls your legs over his shoulders. His tongue licks one long stripe from your entrance to you clit, tracing soft, aching circles before sucking the swollen nub. Tasting you. Drinking you.

Your back arches in pleasure. An electric wave traveling down your spine as Joel goes back and forth from sucking and licking — entering his two fingers once again, thrusting slowly and curling when they’re buried deep enough. Feeling the soft, spongy part of you that has you squirming under his touch.

His teeth graze your folds — his tongue trails down to his fingers. You shiver at the contact when he cleans the juices that pool around his digits and licks at your sweet, fucked hole.

You shift beneath him, fingers trembling as you grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling it slowly over his muscled and scarred back. His mouth finally breaks away from your sweetness, breath ragged and mouth swollen and red. Your hands don’t stop — your grip tightens, peeling the shirt higher and higher until it slips off like a whispered surrender. His fingers snap his belt loose, the sharp clang echoing between you, raw and urgent. Jeans fall with a careless haste, sliding down as if he's desperate to escape, leaving him bare. He then pulls Tommy's shirt over your head, revealing all of you’re intimacy.

Joel melts onto you, his body pressing close, every inch seeking solace of your skin. His hands wander, fingertips grazing the curves of your breasts — squeezing your needy nipples slightly between his fingers as if they were begging for his touch. He dips his head into the tender hollow of your neck, inhaling the quiet warmth of you, memorizing your scent. His lips brush against your soft skin, urgent kisses claiming you. Sucking and biting — leaving obvious marks. Yet each one a whispered need for you.

“Fuck me.” You plead. Hands wrapping around his length and tugging lazily, leading him to your desperate and dripping entrance.

“God. Fuck.” He gaps, leaning into your touch and pushing his cock inside of you — feeling your walls stretch to his size. Feeling the way you tighten around him. Groaning at the soft noises you make.

His hands grab the top of your head — fingers tangling in your hair with practiced ease — to keep you steady while he pounds hard and fast into you. The sounds of skin slapping skin fill the air, and you can’t help but scream his name.

“Yeah. You like that? Dirty fuckin' girl.” He swears, dipping his head to your neck and biting the already bruised skin. You hate the way he calls you dirty, hate the way it’s true, hate the way it makes you wetter and needier.

His movements continue, hard and fast. He doesn’t even look at you, just stares at the way you take him whole. At the way he disappears into you as if it’s magic.

He buries his length completely inside of you, holding still as he grabs your face and makes you look at the sight. Where the two of you collide into one. “Who do you belong to?”

All you can do is moan. You don’t want to answer that. Don’t want to admit what you already know. But Joel doesn’t let it go. He pulls your hair, pulling your face close to his — feeling his hot breath sweep across your mouth. So close that your lips brush together.

“Who do you belong to?” He whispers this time, eyes dark and full of something sinful.

You close your eyes. “You, Joel. I belong to you.”

A wicked smirk curves his lips before he claims yours with fierce hunger. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting sharply and pulling with possessive insistence. The metallic taste of blood floods your tongue — an intoxicating blend of pain and desire, raw and unspoken between you.

His thrusts get deeper and harder, making you tits bounce painfully but it felt good. Felt really good. Your headboard bangs against the wall. Your bedframe squeaks.

You’re glad he’s going rough, fucking the sense out of you. You need it like a lifeline — because if he were soft, tender, anything gentle, the floodgates would open. Tommy’s face would blaze behind your eyes, his voice a ghost in the silence, the ache of who’s waiting to come home to you. The cruel truth of it would crash through the moment, tearing at the fragile walls you’ve built. But instead, Joel’s fierce touch shatters you in the present, scattering memory to the wind — raw, urgent, and burning with a desperate hunger that leaves no room for anything else.

Your breath catches as you whisper his name, nails sinking into the steel of his biceps. Beneath your touch, the familiar swell of tension rises — slow, deep, an unspoken heat coiling between you. You’re about to cum.

And you can tell Joel is too. His movements falter, hesitation flickering in the strength of his touch. One hand presses firmly to steady his weight, while the other grips your hip with fierce intent. Your name slips from his lips — soft, breathless — then crashes into a string of curses, raw and unguarded, tumbling out in the heat of the moment. The moves all too familiar.

You can feel him twitch inside of you, his cheeks blaze red, sweat slicking his brow as heat pulses through him. He buries his face deep into the hollow of your neck, breath ragged and desperate — clinging to you like a lifeline, raw and unrestrained in his need. His breath hitches as he releases hot strands of himself deep inside of you, legs shaking and his weight giving into you.

You can feel the way his cum drips from your fucked hole to your sheets. Making them dirty — like you.

Joel rolls over, pulling you close until your bodies press together. His lips brush softly against your shoulder—a quiet kiss that lingers with unspoken warmth.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice fading as sleep claims him.

You lie still, a hollow ache settling deep in your stomach. It’s not that you didn’t want this, or that he forced you — no, it was your choice. But now the weight of it crashes down like a tide, relentless and cold. The bitter truth that maybe you really are a bad person. And the cruel sting of silence, the way you couldn’t say it back, because in that fragile, fractured moment, you realized — you don’t love him, but this is what you deserve.

The sun had only just begun to rise, spilling pale gold across the edge of the bed like an accusation.

Joel was still asleep beside you, one arm slung loosely over your waist, his breath steady, warm against your shoulder. You stared at the ceiling, eyes dry but burning. Every inch of you ached — not from what he’d done, but from the emptiness that followed it.

He stayed.

For the first time, he stayed.

Before Tommy, that would’ve meant everything. You would’ve memorized the weight of his arm, counted the seconds between his breaths. You would’ve whispered something soft just to hear him answer. You would’ve felt… chosen.

But now?

Now it felt like rot.

His presence beside you wasn’t comfort — it was confirmation. That you weren’t better than him. That all the moral high ground you thought you stood on was nothing but rubble. You cheated. You lied. You betrayed someone who made you feel love in the most devastating way possible. And Joel — he hadn’t even had to try that hard.

You let him in. Let him win.

And the worst part?

Somewhere deep inside, you still wanted to feel wanted by him. Still longed for the way he touched you like you belonged to him. Still craved it. And that made your stomach twist.

You turned your face into the pillow, teeth clenching.

You were just like him.

He’d used you to fill the void in his heart. To bury things too heavy to carry. And now you’d done the same — used him to escape your guilt, your fear, your loneliness.

You had judged him so harshly. Cursed him for what he did to you. For what he made you feel. But this?

This made you no different.

You really weren’t the girl who deserved Tommy.

You were just someone who broke things.

And worst of all… you didn’t know if you could ever be anything else.

You were still awake when Joel stirred beside you, the mattress shifting with his weight as he rolled onto his back. A low groan slipped from his throat, thick with sleep. For a moment, it was quiet — too quiet. Then you felt his hand reach for you beneath the sheets, fingertips brushing your hip like it meant nothing.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, voice hollow.

Joel blinked himself awake fully, brow furrowed. “What?”

“This.” You sat up, arms wrapping tightly around your knees. “I can’t keep doing this to him. To Tommy.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “You already did.”

The words hit hard — because they were true. But it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

Joel leaned back against the headboard, watching you with that unreadable expression of his. “What’s done is done,” he said, voice low, almost casual. “You think cryin’ about it’s gonna undo it?”

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “He deserves someone good.”

Joel tilted his head, something like amusement — or pity — crossing his face. “He does.”

Your eyes flashed toward him. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because you’re not good,” Joel said simply. Not cruel. Just… matter-of-fact. “You’re like me. You can try to dress it up, call it regret, call it confusion — but you were always gonna end up right here.”

You shook your head, hot tears spilling over. “No. I’m not like you.”

“Ain’t sayin’ that like it’s a bad thing,” he murmured. “It’s just what it is.”

You pressed your hands into your face, trying to stop the storm building in your chest.

Then his voice softened — shifted like he hadn’t just gutted you with his words. “You want me to go, I will. But…” He reached for your hand, pulled it gently into his lap. “I don’t wanna go. Not yet.”

You looked at him — really looked at him. His eyes were tired. Heavy. Haunted. But he was warm. Here. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I just… I can’t get enough of you,” he added, thumb brushing the back of your hand like he hadn’t just told you you were broken. “Every time I think I can walk away, I find myself right back here.”

A long silence fell between you.

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You just laid back down beside him, curling into the same warmth that was slowly pulling you under.

Because maybe this was the life you deserved. Maybe Joel was right. Maybe you were like him.

And maybe this was the only place left for people like you.

By the third day, hours slipped by like a slow tide — pulling pieces of you out to sea, one thought at a time.

Joel was still here.

Still sleeping in your bed. Still waking with you, brushing his knuckles against your spine as if he had any right. Still pouring two mugs of coffee, humming like he belonged.

He didn’t touch you again. Not in the way he had before. But his presence pressed down on the air like a second weight you couldn’t breathe under.

It should’ve felt like a victory. Like something earned after all that longing. But instead, it felt like a mistake wearing the mask of a wish.

You didn’t know when you started hiding in the bathroom, only that it became your sanctuary — four walls and silence where he couldn’t follow you. It was there, curled on the tile, that the truth hit you like a bruise finally blooming.

Tommy comes home tomorrow.

The words rang in your chest like a bell you couldn’t unring. Your stomach turned. You curled in tighter. Tears gathered without asking.

You had slept beside his brother every night for days. Let him stay. Let him linger. Let him rot your heart from the inside out.

And for what?

Because Joel told you that you were bad. Because he said you weren’t worthy of the kind of love Tommy gave so freely. Because he knew where your softest parts were buried and he pressed on them until you believed him.

"You’re like me." "Tommy deserves better than you."

His voice spun inside your head like a cruel hymn.

You stood on shaking legs, gripping the edge of the sink, the porcelain cold against your palms. When you dared to look up into the mirror, you barely recognized the face staring back.

You stared at yourself — eyes swollen, lips bitten raw, your skin pale beneath Tommy’s old shirt. The same one you clutched when you missed him too much to sleep. The same one Joel fucked you in. You looked like a ghost. Like someone caught between two lives.

And you hated it.

But when you looked closer — really looked — you saw something he couldn’t erase. A flicker of who you were before all this. Before the grief. Before the guilt. Before you let your mother’s death write your worth in ash.

None of that was your fault. And maybe… maybe neither was the way you’d been surviving.

But this? Letting Joel define you? That was something you could still change.

All that guilt you hoarded like armor? It never made you stronger. It only made you easier to break.

Joel didn’t see a bad person in you. He saw someone already broken, and he picked at the cracks.

And God help you, you let him.

But not anymore.

Because when you thought of Tommy — his hands on your hips while you laughed over bad music, the gentleness in his voice when he asked how your day was — you didn’t feel undeserving.

You felt wanted.

And in that fragile moment, staring at the shadow of yourself, you finally whispered it aloud:

“I’m not a bad person.”

The sound of it startled you. Not because it was loud — but because it was true.

Joel didn’t make you this way. He just convinced you it was already who you were. But it wasn’t.

And tomorrow, Tommy would come home.

And you didn’t know what he’d say. What you’d confess. What it might cost you.

But you did know one thing:

You were done letting Joel decide who you were.

You opened the bathroom door with fire in your throat and ache in your bones. Joel looked up from the couch, something soft in his eyes like he thought you were about to curl into him again.

You didn’t.

“Get out,” you said, voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “What?”

“I said get your shit and leave.”

He stood slowly, unsure whether you were serious. “What’s going on with you?”

“You’re going on. You’ve been going on for too long, Joel.” You stepped fully into the room, heart pounding. “I let you stay here. I let you crawl back into my bed, back into my head. I let you make me feel like I didn’t deserve better than this— better than you.”

His face dropped. “You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every fucking word.” You were shaking now, voice rising with the truth. “You made me believe I was broken. That I was wrong for being loved by someone like Tommy. And I let you.”

Joel moved toward you, but you backed away.

“I told you I love you,” he said, quieter.

You laughed, bitter and hoarse. “I know. And it’s twisted, because I think part of you really does. But love isn’t supposed to feel like shame. It’s not supposed to feel like I’m rotting from the inside.”

Joel’s mouth opened, but no words came.

“I’m telling Tommy,” you said, staring him down. “When he comes home tomorrow, I’m going to tell him everything. Every lie. Every mistake.”

He flinched. “No— don’t. Please. I’ve already hurt him too much.”

“It’s too late, Joel,” you snapped. “We both did. And I have to own that. I have to live with that. You don’t get to sit here in my home like none of this matters.”

Joel’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’re all I have.”

“And that’s not my job to fix anymore.”

Silence. Long and stretching. He stood still, eyes glassy, breathing like he’d been hit.

“I love you,” he tried again, more fragile this time.

“I know,” you said, softer now. “But I won’t let you tear me down just so I’ll need you more. You need to get better on your own, Joel."

He stared at you for a long moment, like he didn’t know where to go now that he couldn’t stay.

Finally, he picked up his jacket, one slow movement at a time. He reached the door. Stopped. Looked back.

You turned away before he could say goodbye.

And when the door closed behind him, it didn’t sound like freedom. It sounded like mourning.

But you stood tall. And for the first time in days — you breathed without breaking.

You heard the footsteps before the knock — heavy, sure, familiar in a way that made your throat tighten.

When you opened the door, there he was.

Tommy.

Sunburned cheeks, wind-worn jacket, smile so big it made your chest ache. “Told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

You couldn’t help it. You launched into his arms like you’d forgotten how to stand on your own. He caught you mid-laugh, and spun you around once, giggling like a boy, like someone who didn’t know how badly you’d broken things.

God, you wished you could freeze time.

You buried your face in his neck. You could smell the campfire in his clothes, the road on his skin. You didn’t know if this would be the last time you’d ever get to hold him like this. But it might be. And that made you hold tighter.

“I missed you,” he breathed, rocking you softly in his arms.

“I missed you too.” It came out like a confession. But not the one you needed to say.

He kissed the side of your face, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I thought about you every damn night. Couldn’t wait to come home to you.”

You opened your mouth — Tommy, I have to tell you something — but the words died in your throat when he pulled you in for a real kiss. Long. Slow. Grateful.

“I need to talk to you,” you whispered against his lips.

But he only smiled, touched your face like it was made of glass. “Can it wait just a little longer?” he murmured. “Been dreaming about this all week.”

Another kiss, deeper this time, and your resistance crumbled like wet paper.

He walked you backward through the hallway, guiding you to the bedroom without looking away from you once. You knew where this was going. You knew it was wrong. But everything about him felt like home, and your guilt had made you a coward.

You tried again. “Tommy… maybe we should talk first?”

But he hushed you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your jaw. “Nope. I need you too much right now. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

Your back hit the mattress, his body leaning gently over yours.

“I missed the hell out of you,” he whispered against your neck. “Don’t make me wait another second.”

And you let him kiss you again.

Because you were weak. Because you loved him. Because telling him now would ruin him, and you weren’t ready to lose him — not yet.

And you let your confession die in your throat as Tommy started undressing you, praising you, pleasing you. Preaching about how much he missed you — thought of you.

And you still didn't stop him when he entered you. When he made sweet, passionate love to you. Kissing you every chance he got. Moaning your name as he held your body close to him — whispering about how beautiful you are. How sexy you are. Cumming inside of you with his fingers laced through yours — talking you down from your own high.

You could still feel him on your skin. The press of his chest, the warmth of his mouth, the soft murmur of your name like it meant something. Tommy lay beside you, playing with a strand of your hair, his fingertips warm and gentle. Safe.

“I love you,” he said softly, like he’d been holding it in the whole trip, waiting for the right second to let it spill. “I thought about saying it all week. And now that I’m here… I just — I needed to say it.”

Your chest collapsed inward.

You couldn’t smile. You couldn’t breathe.

You sat up suddenly, the sheet falling from your shoulders like shame slipping into the room.

Tommy propped himself up, panicked. "Wait— was I too fast. I'm sorry I-"

"No, Tom-" but his panic interrupts you, not allowing you to say what you need.

"Please just— forget I said that, okay."

"Tommy—"

"I— I don't want to ruin this. Just lay back down, I'll take things slower. I'll—"

“Tommy, I slept with Joel,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He blinked. Stared. Then let out a shaking laugh. "What?"

You swallowed. "Joel came over... while you were gone. I slept with him."

The words hit the air like glass shattering — sharp, impossible to take back.

You couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “You’re… that’s a joke, right?” He laughed nervously. “That’s not funny.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes blurring. “I’m not joking.”

He jerked away from you, swinging his legs off the bed. “No. No, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I didn’t plan it—"

“What do you mean he came over?” His voice rose like a thundercrack. “Why was he at your house?”

“I don’t know— he just showed up. Said he missed me. Said he left his wife for me—”

“You let him in?” Tommy’s voice broke. “Why didn’t you tell him to leave? Why didn’t you slam the damn door in his fuckin' face?”

“Because I was confused, Tommy. Because Joel— he has a hold on me I don’t understand. I tried to push him away. I swear to God, I tried.”

Tommy was up now, tugging on his pants with shaking hands. “How do you even know Joel like that? What the hell is going on? How long has this been happening?”

You tried to reach for him. “There’s more to the story— please, let me explain—”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” He yells, yanking his arm away from you. Then he looks at you closer, eyes squinting towards the nape of your neck. He grabs your face harshly, tilting it to the side to get a better look — you already know what he saw. A faded bruise left from Joel's teeth.

"That from him?" He seethes, darting his eyes towards yours. The look you give him tells him everything he needs to know.

"Fuckin' great." He mutters, pushing you away from him and rubbing his hand down his face in frustration.

That gutted you.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Tommy. I was scared.”

He laughed, bitter and raw. “Scared of what? What could you possibly be scared of that made you cheat on me? Betray me."

Your voice cracked. “It wasn’t like that—”

“No, it’s exactly like that,” he snapped. He shoved his arms into his jacket, hands fumbling with the zipper. “I thought I finally had someone who made all of this worth it. A nice girl."

“I am that person,” you said, desperate now. “Please, just sit down. Let me tell you everything. Let me explain.”

He stopped in the doorway, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt to keep it shut. But he didn’t speak. He looked back at you, thick tears threatening to spill over his lashes. Eyes bloodshot. You noticed the way his hands were shaking — noticed the way he had trouble breathing.

“Tommy— please.”

“You let him touch you. After everything? After how hard I tried to make you happy?"

Tears spilled down your cheeks. "Please stay. Just let me tell you everything— Tommy I'm begging."

"Stay the fuck away from me." He said, voice like ice. "We're done."

And then he was gone.

The door slammed behind him, and you swore your heart left with it.

Tag list: @looneyleo @emmaaas-posts @demo-bats @aphroditesblunt @staley83 @immyowndefender @magicxmiller @wow-life-love4 @thaliagracesgf @sugarminsss @keseqna

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filthyjoelslvr · 14 days ago

Text

Cupid's Chokehold — part one!

FEEL SO CLOSE

[next chapter]

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[series masterlist]

[main masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.

His heart races a little faster at the thought.

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.

And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what��s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right.

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy.

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.

Which means no time with you.

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl.

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.

Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

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filthyjoelslvr · 17 days ago

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MDNI this page is for 18+ only!!

most recent: the other woman

The Other Woman: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 (Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader)

Window Seat: part 1 | part 2 (dbf!joel x reader)

Memorial Day: oneshot (dbf!joel x reader)

MORE TO COME

strike through = coming soon

requests accepted

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel smut #joel x reader #tlou #pedro pascal #joel #joel the last of us #fanfic #joel miller x reader

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filthyjoelslvr · 17 days ago

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oh my god. The other woman has me GUTTED. My heart was aching, then my heart was racing and I was giggling and kicking my feet. Then you STABBED ME AND TWISTED THE KNIFE. So so good, truly, love it

you have no idea what this means to me 😩 i'm so glad you loved it !! 🖤

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filthyjoelslvr · 18 days ago

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The Other Woman

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)

Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.

But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.

You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.

Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)

Word Count: 9k?

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.

The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.

But he never does.

The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.

Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.

But you know better.

He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.

You let him. Every time.

Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.

And on Sundays — you never expect him.

Sundays are for her.

The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.

Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.

And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.

But he doesn’t. He won’t.

And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.

It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.

The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.

He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.

You didn’t ask him where he’d been.

You never do.

You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.

The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.

He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.

It’s never urgent, with Joel.

It’s not tender either.

It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.

You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.

You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.

You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine. Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.

You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.

Then he spoke. Just one word.

“Laura.”

You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.

He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.

You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.

You don’t cry anymore.

That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.

Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.

You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.

And still, it lingers.

That feeling. That film.

Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.

Because love is something he gives to her.

And you’re just flesh.

You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.

But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?

She gets him clean. You get him hollow.

You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.

Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.

You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.

He gives her Sundays. And you?

You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.

Maybe. If he’s not too tired.

Never Sundays. Never.

You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.

The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.

But he never does.

He doesn’t ask.

It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.

Joel Miller.

Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.

You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

Just noticed.

He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.

The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.

He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”

And that was it.

No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.

After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”

Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.

One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.

Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.

You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.

That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.

He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.

It kept happening.

Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.

He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.

You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.

You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.

He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.

And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.

Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.

You just open it.

Let him in. And let him leave.

He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.

Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.

You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.

Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.

People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.

"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."

"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."

And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.

Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.

You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.

Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.

And he never mentioned her. Not once.

Not in words, at least.

But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.

You don’t feel guilty.

Not really.

You’ve tried. God, have you tried.

But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.

You still do.

You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.

And maybe that makes you cruel.

Maybe that makes you hollow.

But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.

She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.

She’s his age. Maybe even older.

And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.

You hate that you envy her. But you do.

You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.

You envy that she gets all of him.

His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.

You only get what’s left.

The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.

And still — you open the door.

Every time.

Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.

Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.

He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.

And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.

He comes late.

Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.

He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.

You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.

You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.

You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”

He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”

You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”

His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”

And that hurts. Because it’s true.

You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”

His face hardens, but you press on.

“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”

He looks away.

You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his. “Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”

He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”

He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”

You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”

Silence. Thick and final.

He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.

You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.

But he doesn’t.

He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.

Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.

“If you leave now, don’t come back.”

He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.

Just like that.

No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.

You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.

You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.

Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.

Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.

But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.

You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.

No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.

You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.

You don’t even know why it hurts this much.

You ended it. You told him to go.

But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.

And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.

You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.

But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.

And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.

He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.

You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.

But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.

Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.

You turn, expecting a trader.

But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.

Tommy.

You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.

Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.

But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.

“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”

He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving. “You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”

You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”

And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.

It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.

“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.

It’s small. Fleeting. But real.

For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.

You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.

Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.

And you laugh. You actually laugh.

And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.

He flirts a little, too.

Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.

And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.

You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.

But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.

And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.

Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.

Warm.

He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before. Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.

Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.

“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.

And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”

At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.

But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.

Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.

He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.

And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.

It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.

The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.

You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.

There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.

But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.

And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”

You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.

He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.

A date.

Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.

A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.

Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.

Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.

You take your time getting ready.

Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.

Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.

You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.

And then the necklace.

A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.

Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.

You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.

You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.

You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.

You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.

And then — a knock at the door.

Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.

For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.

You smile before you even open the door.

Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.

He’s dressed up. For you.

Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.

And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.

Your breath catches.

“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.

He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”

Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.

You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.

And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.

Not tonight.

You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.

They smell like someone tried.

“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.

“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”

You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”

Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.

He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”

And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.

Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.

The forest hums low with night.

You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.

When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.

It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.

Chosen. Prepared.

Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.

You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.

The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.

He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”

You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”

“At makin’ fires?”

“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.

“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.

You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.

Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.

He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.

“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.

He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”

You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood. The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.

Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”

You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—

A bottle.

Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.

He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”

He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”

You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”

He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.

“You came prepared.”

He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.

You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”

Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”

You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.

You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.

But it’s good.

You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”

He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”

You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.

And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.

He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”

You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”

You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.

The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.

Just soft. Open.

You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.

Neither of you say anything for a long while.

The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.

And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.

Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.

Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.

The stars have faded from your focus.

All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.

You haven't spoken in a while.

Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.

And then you feel it shift.

The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.

His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.

His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.

You don’t.

Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.

The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.

Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.

His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.

Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.

You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.

You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.

But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.

Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you

He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.

And then—

He deepens it.

Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.

And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.

Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.

Not Tommy. But Joel.

Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.

And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.

You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.

He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.

You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”

He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”

You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.

He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.

And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.

And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.

Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.

He walks you home in the moonlight.

You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.

But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.

And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.

“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.

Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.

You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.

And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.

It’s your day off.

The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.

A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.

You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.

You’re not really reading, though.

Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.

You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.

And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.

So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.

You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”

But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.

It’s Joel.

He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.

You blink. “What?”

He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”

Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.

Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?

But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.

He looks hurt.

“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.

“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”

You freeze.

“What?”

His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”

Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”

His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”

Your whole body goes still.

He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.

Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.

“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”

Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.

“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”

You blink hard, throat tightening.

And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:

He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.

He feels something.

But it’s too late. Too twisted.

Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.

“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”

You see it hit him.

Right in the gut.

Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.

And then — without a word — he turns.

And walks away.

No apology. No threat. No parting shot.

Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.

You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.

You try not to think about Joel. You try.

But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.

Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.

Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.

You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.

You hear his boots before you see him.

Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”

You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.

You freeze.

It hits you all at once — how different this feels.

How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.

And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.

So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.

You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

That does it.

He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.��

He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.

Tommy’s house surprises you.

It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.

The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.

“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”

You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”

Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”

He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.

He doesn’t get annoyed.

He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.

“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”

When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.

“What the—?”

You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.

“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”

Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.

He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.

The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.

And then—

His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.

And you kiss.

It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”

You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.

Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.

And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

“Hi,” you say with a little smile.

He kisses your cheek in reply.

You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.

“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”

He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”

You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.

Then he asks: “How was your day?”

And you freeze.

Your smile falters for just a second too long.

He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.

You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.

“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”

He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.

You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.

You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.

And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.

But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.

Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.

Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.

You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.

Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.

You think, I could get used to this.

And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:

“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”

Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.

“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.

But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.

“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”

You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.

“Tommy—”

“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”

He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.

“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…” He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”

Your heart drops.

Because God, you want to tell him.

You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.

But you can’t.

If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.

And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.

So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.

“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”

It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.

Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”

Your throat tightens.

He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”

You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”

Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”

His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.

“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not careful this time. Not shy.

It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.

That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.

And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.

Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.

His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.

So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.

His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.

It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.

You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.

He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.

Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…

Tommy feels like safety. Like home.

There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.

Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.

He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.

His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.

And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.

“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.

“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.

His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.

He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.

Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.

They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.

And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.

You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.

You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.

And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.

“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.

He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.

Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.

“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.

“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.

“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.

His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.

Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.

You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.

Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.

“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.

He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.

Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.

When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.

He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.

He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.

“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.

His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.

Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.

He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.

Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.

“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.

His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.

Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.

“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”

You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”

His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.

You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.

He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.

His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.

Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.

“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”

He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.

“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”

And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.

His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.

“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”

You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.

“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”

His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.

"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.

And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.

Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.

And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.

At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.

He’s still here.

Tommy.

His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.

Your chest tightens.

You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.

So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.

A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”

You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.

He sees it, though. He always does.

His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”

It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.

Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.

It was late now — a little before midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.

But when you opened the door, your breath caught.

It wasn’t Tommy.

It was Joel.

And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.

And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.

It was Sunday.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.

“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.

You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.

Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.

You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.

He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”

His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”

Your heart thudded.

“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.

Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.

“You happy?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”

You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”

He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.

“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”

Silence.

“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.

You stared. Shocked. “What?”

“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”

Joel looked down, silent again.

And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.

“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”

Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.

“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."

"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."

"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"

"Joel stop."

He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"

"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.

He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."

You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.

Well... you have.

But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.

"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.

"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.

"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.

And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.

Just hollow.

You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.

And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.

It wasn’t Sunday anymore.

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filthyjoelslvr · 18 days ago

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at the same damn time 🧎🏻‍♀️

983 notes · View notes

filthyjoelslvr · 22 days ago

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one thing I will always be a fan of is a wet Miller

2K notes · View notes

filthyjoelslvr · 23 days ago

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Window Seat (2)

Part 1

Content: Dbf!Joel x reader

Synop: Joel's been distant ever since the night he snuck into your house, into your room, to touch you in places you needed. His need for you overpowers him, making all his regret dissolve.

Warnings: age gap (not specified), pet names (praising, says slut once), use of daddy (once), no outbreak, unprotected PiV, oral (f receiving), praising, (might be forgetting some)

Word Count: 9k

(dividers by: @strangergraphics @cafekitsune)

It starts with the blinds.

At first, it’s subtle, almost invisible — something that could easily be brushed off. But when you’re sitting at your window, staring across the street like you have so many times before, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Joel’s blinds are completely shut.

For weeks, they’ve always been open — just a little. Enough that you could see the outline of his figure moving in and out of the living room, the occasional flash of him leaning over to grab a shirt from his dresser, or the silhouette of him sitting on his bed, watching TV after a long day. Those moments, however brief, had become your silent routine. His window was a steady, reassuring presence, something that felt like a connection, even when you weren’t close.

But tonight, the window is dark. Nothing. Not a hint of movement. Not a flicker of light.

You shift uncomfortably, leaning forward, your face pressed against the cool glass. Your heart beats a little faster, a strange fluttering in your chest that makes you pause. You try to tell yourself it’s nothing — that maybe he just wanted some privacy tonight, or maybe he’s been busy. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. You’ve been doing this long enough to notice the changes, even the smallest ones.

You glance at your phone, checking the time — it’s past 10 p.m. Now would be the time Joel would normally swing by after his long day. He always has some excuse, a reason to come over, to have a beer with your dad or to just hang out. But tonight, there’s nothing. No knock at the door. No text. No call.

Not a word.

You run your fingers over the glass, your thoughts growing heavier. He hasn’t been by in days. Not since that night — that night you can’t stop replaying in your head, a night that felt like everything had shifted. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, wasn’t it? A secret between the two of you. But then the silence settled in, stretching between you like a rift, filling the spaces with confusion and doubt.

You’ve tried to convince yourself that maybe he just needs space, that maybe he’s processing what happened. But the doubt lingers in your chest, tightening with each passing hour. You can’t help but feel like he’s avoiding you. It’s not just the blinds. It’s the lack of contact — no text, no call, no word of any kind. Joel, who used to be here, is now a ghost.

You force yourself to look away from his window, but your eyes keep wandering back. It’s like you can’t stop searching for him, even though you already know the answer. The emptiness in his house, the absence of him behind the blinds, is enough to settle the growing pit in your stomach.

You glance across the street again, wondering if maybe you’ve missed something. But his house looks different now — darker. Quieter. His truck, which is usually parked out front, isn’t there, and the street feels colder without it. When he’s here, even just parked in his driveway, it feels like the neighborhood is alive. But now, with his absence, everything seems still.

You glance down at your phone again. You’ve sent him a few texts in the past few days. Short ones, nothing too needy. Just simple things like, "Hey, you coming by tonight?" or "Haven’t seen you in a while, everything okay?" But no responses. No pings, no notifications, nothing. Just that unsettling silence.

Joel has always been the type to show up unannounced, the kind of guy who’d knock on the door without a second thought, asking for a drink or a place to sit after a long day. He didn’t need a reason to show up, not really. He was just always there, like a fixture in the background of your life. Even if he wasn’t there physically, you knew he’d be back soon.

But now? There’s an eerie stillness in the space he’s left behind. You don’t even remember when the last time was that he came by. Was it five days ago? Six? You can’t remember the last time you heard his gravelly voice, the last time you felt his presence in the house.

You try to call him, finally. Your fingers hover over the screen, but when you press his name, your stomach churns with unease. The dial tone rings longer than usual, echoing in your ear. He’s not picking up. No voicemail. Just the sound of the phone ringing and ringing until it goes quiet.

You try again, this time sending a quick text.

“Joel, hey. Everything okay? Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

Still no response. You feel the familiar, bitter sting of disappointment in your chest, but you push it down. You can’t let it get to you. It’s just… it’s just Joel, right? He’s probably just busy. He probably has a lot on his plate. The rational part of your brain tries to talk you down, but there’s a gnawing feeling at the back of your mind that tells you something’s wrong. Something is different.

You turn away from the window, pacing across the room. Your dad is downstairs, watching TV, blissfully unaware of the growing knot in your stomach. He hasn’t mentioned Joel’s absence yet, but you can see the change in him too. He’s been glancing at his phone more than usual, checking the time whenever he hears a car drive by. He’s used to Joel stopping by at least once a day, even if it’s just for a quick chat. But it’s been days now. Days without a word.

And your dad is starting to notice. Starting to worry.

“Hey, where’s Joel been?” he asked you earlier, in that nonchalant tone he uses when he doesn’t want to seem concerned. “Haven’t seen him around.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s busy.”

But your dad’s frown deepened. “Hm. Yeah. I guess so.”

There was an odd weight to his words, a note of suspicion that lingered in the air long after he’d moved on to something else. But you could feel it — he’s starting to wonder if something’s wrong.

You make your way to the kitchen, distractedly grabbing a glass of water, but your eyes keep flicking toward the window again, toward the empty, dark space where Joel’s presence used to be. The silence in his house feels like a physical thing, pressing down on your chest.

You haven’t seen him in days. You haven’t heard from him in days. And now his blinds are shut.

And for the first time, you realize with a sickening lurch in your stomach: Joel is avoiding you.

The morning light filters through the kitchen window, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. You can hear the steady hum of the coffee maker, the clink of ceramic mugs being set down on the table. Your dad sits across from you, his usual worn flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his face drawn with the lines of someone who’s been up for a while. The smell of fresh coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to mask the subtle tension hanging between you.

You glance at your phone absentmindedly, scrolling through a few messages that are all empty — nothing from Joel, nothing from anyone really. Just the dull buzz of notifications that don’t mean anything.

It’s quiet, the kind of quiet where your dad’s thoughts are running a mile a minute, and you can feel the unease in the air before he speaks.

“Y’know, it’s really weird about Joel,” your dad says, breaking the silence, his voice low but firm.

You look up, pretending like you didn’t notice it yourself. “What do you mean?”

He sets his mug down with a heavy sigh, fingers tapping absently on the ceramic. “I’ve been tryin' to get ahold of him for a few days now. He usually stops by, or at least sends me a text, even if it’s just to say he’s busy. But I haven’t heard a word from him. Not even a damn call.”

You try to hide your reaction, even though your heart skips a beat. Joel’s been avoiding you, and it’s clear he’s been avoiding your dad, too. You keep your voice casual, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “Maybe he’s just caught up with work. You know how he is, always busy with something.”

Your dad shakes his head, not convinced. “He’s been way too quiet. The thing is, when Joel’s tied up with something, he lets me know. He’ll text, or give me a call, something. Hell, sometimes he’ll even show up just to tell me he’s got a late one. But this… this feels different.”

You can hear the frustration in his voice now, the worry that’s been slowly creeping in. He’s always been laid-back, never the type to get too worked up over anything, but Joel’s absence has clearly unsettled him.

“He didn’t even send me a text to say he’d be gone for a while or that he was swamped. Just… nothing.” Your dad looks out the window, his mind clearly racing. “I’ve heard his truck leave in the mornings, and I’ve seen it come back in the afternoons. So, I know he’s around. But he won’t even pick up my calls. What the hell’s going on with him?”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, trying to maintain your cool. You already know what’s going on. The night still lingers in your mind, the way Joel left so suddenly, his words heavy with regret, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite read. But you can’t tell your dad that.

You set your cup down gently, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Don’t worry so much, Dad. I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he’s just going through something. He’s not exactly great at reaching out when he’s in his head, you know that.”

Your dad looks at you, raising an eyebrow as if trying to gauge if you're telling the truth or just brushing it off. "Yeah, I know. But it’s just… not like him. Not this bad. Hell, he’s been over here almost every damn day since he moved into that house.”

He runs a hand through his graying hair, eyes narrowing in concern. "You sure you haven’t heard from him? Or seen him around?"

You shake your head a little too quickly, your voice a little too steady. “Nope. Haven’t seen him. But I’ll stop by after work and see if he’s okay. You know, just check in on him. I’m sure everything’s fine. Maybe he just needs a break from… well, everything.”

Your dad nods slowly, his lips pulling into a thin line. You can tell he’s not convinced, but he doesn’t press the issue.

“Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his mug again. "I guess you’re right. But I don’t know, something about this just doesn’t sit right with me. It’s not like him to disappear like this, not without any kind of word." He pauses, staring down into his coffee. "I’m just… I don’t know. I’ve been worrying more than I should."

You smile weakly, trying to ease his mind, though your own thoughts are racing. “You know how men are. They don’t talk about their feelings. You’d get more out of a statue.” You chuckle softly, hoping to break the tension, though it falls flat.

Your dad smiles back at you, but it’s tired, a little sad. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just hate not knowing what's going on. But… I guess if you’re heading over there, it’ll give me some peace of mind."

"Don’t worry so much, okay? I’ll check in with him and let you know what’s up. Maybe he just needs some time to himself, and we’re all overthinking it." You give him a reassuring nod, even though a part of you knows it’s not that simple.

"Alright," he says, sighing heavily, his shoulders slumping as he leans back in his chair. "Guess I’ll just focus on work today, and you let me know how it goes. Appreciate it, kid."

You nod again, feeling a tightness in your chest. It’s all you can do to act like everything’s fine, even though the sinking feeling in your gut tells you that something is seriously wrong.

You finish your coffee in silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. The weight of your dad’s worry is heavy in the air, and you know it’s not just about Joel anymore — it’s about your dad too. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him what you already know. Joel has pulled away, not just from you, but from everything.

An anger settles deep in your stomach. Joel can ignore you all he wants, leave you be, but bringing your dad into this crosses the line.

The sun’s just beginning to dip below the rooftops when you hear it — the low, familiar rumble of Joel’s truck pulling into the driveway across the street.

It’s later than usual. Much later. Most nights, Joel’s already home and settled by now, beer in hand, maybe a light on in the living room, TV murmuring softly through the window. But this time, the engine grumbles into your awareness like a ghost finally deciding to come home.

You freeze in place, caught mid-motion in your room, a book forgotten in your lap, your phone screen dimming beside you. Slowly, quietly, you rise and walk to your window, careful not to make any noise — like he might hear you from all the way across the street.

You pull the blinds apart, just a sliver, and there he is.

Joel Miller, climbing out of his truck with one hand gripping the top of the door and the other slinging his worn flannel jacket over his shoulder. The soft orange of the setting sun hits him just right — that low, amber light brushing his skin, catching the gray in his hair, outlining the curve of his shoulders, the sharp lines of his profile. He looks tired. Worn. Still so painfully good-looking it makes something twist in your chest.

He pauses at his front steps for a moment, glancing out toward the quiet street — not at your window, not at you — just a passing glance before he rubs the back of his neck and disappears through his front door.

No light flicks on in the window. The blinds stay closed.

You stand there for a moment longer, fingertips resting on the windowsill, your throat tight with something you can’t quite swallow. You should be angry. Maybe you are. But mostly, you feel… disappointed. Not because Joel pulled away. But because he didn’t even try to say goodbye.

You think about all the nights you’ve watched him from this same spot — the warmth you used to feel when you’d catch a glimpse of him moving around his house, the stolen glances, the tension that built in the space between your windows like static. And then, that night. The way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he whispered your name like it was something he didn’t want to give up.

You feel the weight of it settling on your shoulders like dusk. And you’re so damn tired of it.

With a shaky breath, you step back from the window. You tell yourself you’re just going over there to check in. That it’s what any good neighbor would do. That this has nothing to do with the ache in your chest or the unanswered texts or the way your heart clenched the second you saw him walk inside like you never happened at all.

You grab a hoodie from the back of your chair, pull it over your head, and slide on your shoes. You don’t give yourself time to second-guess it.

As you cross the street, the sun sinks lower, throwing long shadows across the pavement. Joel’s truck is still warm, the engine ticking softly in the cooling air. His porch light is off, the blinds unmoving — like the house is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

You climb the steps and hesitate at the door.

Your knuckles hover over the wood, your pulse pounding in your ears. For a second, you consider turning back. Going home. Pretending none of this ever happened. But the thought of another night of silence — another night of pretending Joel hasn’t become this unreachable part of you — is worse.

So, you knock.

Soft. Hesitant. But loud enough.

And then you wait.

The knock still hangs in the air when the door swings open — not fast, not welcoming — just enough to say what do you want?

Joel stands in the doorway, his shoulders square, one hand still gripping the edge of the doorframe like he hadn’t decided if he was going to open it all the way. His eyes land on you, and for a split second, something like relief flashes across his face.

Then it’s gone.

Replaced by something colder. Guarded. Almost annoyed.

“…What are you doin’ here?” he asks, his voice rough, like he hasn’t spoken to anyone all day. Or maybe like he didn’t want to speak to you.

You blink, caught off guard by how distant he sounds. You expected guilt maybe, or discomfort, but not this sharpness. Still, you hold your ground.

“I just…” You clear your throat, looking up at him. “I wanted to check on you. You’ve been quiet lately.”

Joel exhales through his nose, leans against the frame. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s not like you,” you say gently. “You usually at least text my dad. He’s starting to get worried.”

Joel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping for a moment before flicking back up to yours. “I’m fine.”

You study him, your eyes narrowing slightly. “You sure?”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps, a little too quickly.

You don’t flinch. “Okay. So you’re fine. Everything’s okay. Then why have you been avoiding me?”

Joel goes still.

He opens the door a little more, like he’s considering asking you in, but doesn’t. The hallway behind him is dimly lit. The smell of wood and leather and old whiskey drifts out, familiar and grounding, but right now it only makes your chest ache.

“I’m not avoidin’ you,” he mutters, clearly lying.

You cross your arms. “Joel.”

He lets out a tired sigh and runs a hand down his face. “Jesus. Look, it’s just… what we did…” he starts, his voice dropping low, like even saying it out loud might make it worse. “It was dangerous.”

You stare at him, pulse pounding. “Dangerous how?”

“You know how,” he snaps, then softens almost immediately. “It was wrong.”

“Then do you regret it?” you ask, voice quiet now. Not angry. Just… broken.

Joel looks at you — really looks at you — like the weight of that question has knocked the wind out of him. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he says finally. “Of course I don’t. But that doesn’t make it right.”

You take a step closer. “You not talking to me? That doesn’t make it right either. It’s not just hurting me, Joel. My dad is confused. Worried. He thinks you’re mad at him or that something happened. And you know how he is — he doesn’t talk about his feelings, but I can see it. Every day. He misses you.”

Joel’s eyes close briefly like the words hit too close.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he says quietly.

“I know you didn’t,” you say, voice softening too. “But you are. By shutting down. By disappearing. And if this… whatever this thing was between us — if it’s the reason you’ve pulled away, then fine.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ll let it go. I’ll forget it happened. Just… don’t disappear on him. He needs you. We need you.”

There’s a long silence between you. Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold something back — guilt or longing or both.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“I care about your dad,” he says, his voice low and thick. “More than I’ve ever cared about another person in my life. He’s… family.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why I’m asking you to stop doing this. Just come back to us. To him. We don’t have to talk about what happened. We don’t have to do anything else. Just… be normal again.”

Joel looks at you like the words are both a lifeline and a punishment.

And for a second, you think maybe — just maybe — he’s going to reach for you. But he doesn’t. He just nods once. Slow. Reluctant.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

You exhale, even though it doesn’t feel like relief. “Thank you.”

Joel’s hand tightens on the doorknob. His voice comes out quieter this time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” you say, even if it doesn’t feel true.

You turn to go. He doesn’t stop you.

And as the door closes gently behind you, the space between you settles into the silence again.

Weeks pass. And life, somehow, starts to feel normal again.

Not all at once — not with some big moment or apology — but gradually. Like the way winter fades into spring: slow, cautious, not entirely sure it’s safe to bloom again.

At first, you and Joel barely look at each other.

When he comes over, you find an excuse to leave. You suddenly remember errands, drive aimlessly for hours just to avoid the creak of floorboards in your room while his voice fills the house downstairs. You wait until he’s left before returning home, stepping into the quiet space he’s left behind, air still faintly warm from where he’d stood.

You wonder if he notices you slipping around him like a ghost. You wonder if it hurts him the way it hurts you.

But he never says anything.

Your dad, though — he lights back up like someone flipped a switch. Joel’s presence returns like it never left: sitting at the kitchen table again, beer in hand, teasing your dad about the burnt edges of his barbecue. Watching sports, fixing things that don’t really need fixing. He starts calling again, sending texts, stopping by after work with that slow, tired smile that used to feel like home.

And you watch from the background. At first.

Little by little, you let yourself drift back in.

Dinner at the table again. Quiet small talk. A movie night where you don’t fake a headache and hide in your room. A joke shared on the porch that makes your dad laugh, Joel’s eyes flicking toward you for half a second — just long enough for your breath to hitch. You sip your drink and look away before it can become anything more.

Everything is back to normal.

At least on the surface.

But beneath it, under the calm rhythms of domestic life, something pulses.

You miss him.

You miss the way he used to say your name with that quiet warmth. The way he’d smile when you walked into the room, like you were the one he’d been waiting for. You miss catching his eye from across the table, the subtle flicker of amusement or softness that only you could read. The knowing glances shared across the porch, the late-night glimpses through open windows.

You keep your blinds closed now. So does he.

It’s better this way, you tell yourself.

Safer.

You promised to forget. To move on. To let it go for your dad’s sake.

And you meant it. You still do.

But some nights, when the house is quiet and you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you remember the way his voice sounded in the dark. The way his hands moved like he already knew every part of you. You remember the heat, the whisper of sweet names, the way he tucked you into bed like he didn’t want to leave but knew he had to.

You don’t cry.

But you feel the ache of missing him like something that was half-healed and pulled open again. Not bleeding — just sore. Tender. Like a bruise only you can feel.

And so you smile at him over dinner. You laugh when he teases your dad. You hand him a beer from the fridge like nothing ever happened. You nod when your dad talks about how good it is to have Joel around again.

And you pretend.

Because that’s what you promised. And because pretending is the only way you get to keep him in your life at all.

The house is quiet. Your dad's gone to bed hours ago, his snoring echoing faintly down the hall. A half-watched movie flickers across the dark living room, its sound low and distant like the buzz of a dream. You’re still on the couch, knees pulled up beneath you, a throw blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor. Rain tapping the window with a calm stream.

You’re not expecting anyone when the knock comes.

It’s late — not so late that it’s strange, but late enough that your heart jumps at the sound. The kind of late that makes everything in the house feel more vulnerable. Darker. Softer.

You pause the movie that’s been playing to an empty room, remote still in your hand, and glance toward the front door. No text. No warning.

But you already know it’s him.

You cross the living room slowly, wiping your palms down the sides of your thighs as you go. You don't check through the peephole. You just open the door.

And there he is.

Joel.

He stands beneath the low porch light, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other clutching something — your dad’s wallet. His jacket is open, shirt rumpled like he’s been wearing it too long. His hair is still damp from the shower or maybe the rain — you can’t tell — and his face is unreadable. Guarded. Tired. A little like he didn’t want to be here, but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach flips. “Hey.”

He lifts the wallet slightly. “Your dad left this in my truck earlier.”

You glance at it, then back at him. “You didn’t have to bring it by tonight.”

Joel shrugs, like it’s nothing, but his jaw’s tight. “Figured he might need it tomorrow.”

“He’s already asleep.”

“I figured that, too.”

Silence settles between you. The kind that used to feel easy — familiar. But now it’s wrapped in something heavier. Sharper. The kind of silence that has to be handled carefully or it might shatter.

You step back without thinking. “You can come in, if you want.”

He hesitates for a beat.

Then he steps inside.

He walks with slow, deliberate steps — like the floor might crack beneath him — and sets the wallet down on the kitchen counter with a muted thud. You shut the door, but don’t move to join him just yet. You watch him from the hallway instead, arms crossed, your body buzzing with nerves.

Joel turns toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You clear your throat. “You’re quiet.”

He exhales, looks away for a second. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nods once. Too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

His shoulders tense. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

You study him. The slope of his brow. The way he’s not looking at you. And it stings — that careful distance he keeps between you. Like you’re something he can’t be trusted to stand too close to.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say softly. “Pretend we’re strangers.”

Joel’s gaze snaps to you — quick, sharp, pained.

“I’m not pretending that,” he says, voice low.

“Then what are you pretending?”

He doesn’t answer. He just watches you like he's trying to hold something in — something he doesn’t trust himself to say.

You take a step forward. Just one. Your voice stays quiet. Careful.

“I thought we were okay. After that night on the porch. I told you I’d drop it. I meant it.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why does it still feel like you’re avoiding me?”

Joel’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t try to lie.

You step closer again, your chest tightening. “I’m not trying to pull you back into anything. I just… I miss you. I miss when we could be in the same room and not feel like we were walking on glass.”

Joel swallows hard, his throat working around the weight of your words. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and hoarse.

“I don’t know how to look at you and not want to touch you.”

The words sink into your skin, low and heated and aching. You go still.

Joel shakes his head. “You think this is easy for me? Bein’ around your dad. Coming in this house. Trying to be normal when all I can think about is how you looked that night — standing at my door, askin’ me if I regret it.”

You blink, throat tight. “Do you?”

His eyes meet yours. Unflinching. “No. But I think about it every goddamn day. What we risked. What it could’ve cost.”

You step closer — close enough now to feel the warmth of his body.

“But it didn’t,” you whisper. “And we said we’d move on.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we still hurting?”

Joel looks at you like he’s trying not to drown in it. Like he wants to say no, wants to say nothing, but his body betrays him first.

His hand lifts.

It hesitates halfway — a breath, a pause — and then he’s touching you. Calloused fingers brush gently along your jaw, so soft it nearly breaks you. His thumb trails just beneath your cheekbone, and your eyes flutter shut instinctively, overwhelmed by the way it feels. Like a confession.

He’s so close now. You can smell cedar and smoke. Feel the warmth of his breath as it fans across your lips. Your heart is in your throat, thudding loud enough to drown out every thought except him.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispers, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you.

Slow. Desperate. Tender.

His lips press into yours like a secret he’s too tired to keep. There’s no rush, no hunger — just aching restraint, the kind of kiss that says I’ve missed you every second I’ve been away. His hand cradles your jaw while the other curls gently around your waist, not pulling, just holding. Like he needs to remember what it feels like before he lets go again.

His lips taste like regret and rain. His touch is careful, worshipful — like you’re something holy.

Your fingers find the front of his shirt, clinging to it as your body leans into him, heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it. The kiss deepens — slowly, carefully — his mouth parting against yours with quiet submission. Like he's afraid if he gives in too much, he'll ruin you both.

And maybe he will.

When he finally pulls away, it’s with a soft, trembling breath. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, in a voice so broken it almost undoes you: “I’m sorry.”

He brushes his thumb once more across your cheek — almost like goodbye — and steps back.

And before you can ask him to stay, before you can say please, he opens the door and slips out into the night.

You don’t follow. You don’t cry. You just stand there in the dark, feeling the echo of his mouth on yours like an imprint you’ll never get rid of.

Gone again.

Leaving you standing there in the dark — lips tingling, heart hollow — with the weight of his kiss still clinging to your skin like a bruise that hasn’t formed yet.

And for the first time in weeks, you’re not just missing him. You’re mourning him.

It starts with the quiet.

The kind of quiet that hums. That settles into the walls of the house like dust and lingers under your skin, too thick to ignore but not loud enough to drown out. You’ve been trying to keep busy — folding laundry that doesn’t need folding, pacing around the kitchen without purpose, starting a movie you didn’t even want to watch.

You left it playing in the background anyway. Something old. Familiar. A film you’ve seen a dozen times but couldn’t name a single plot point if someone asked. The dialogue blends into the silence like white noise. You're not really listening.

Not when your mind keeps wandering.

Back to him.

Back to that night.

That kiss.

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about it — the way his mouth felt on yours, soft and certain and so careful, like he was afraid of breaking something even as he gave in to the very thing he’d been trying so hard to avoid. It plays on a loop in your mind. The heat of his hand on your jaw. The tremble in his voice when he said, “I’m sorry.”

You haven’t been the same since.

Not because of the kiss — but because of what came after. The way he left. The way he hasn’t reached out since.

Like he’s trying to pretend it didn’t happen.

Like you’re something he regrets.

You pull your knees up to your chest on the bed, resting your chin there as the light from the TV flickers across the room. You’ve been holding your breath every night since. Waiting for him to text. To call. To do something.

But he hasn’t.

And the silence is starting to feel like punishment.

The house is still. Your dad went to bed hours ago — you heard the creak of his door, the distant shuffle of him brushing his teeth, the usual end-of-day routine.

You wonder if he regrets it.

The thought sits heavy in your chest, pressing down with every heartbeat. You’ve tried to be okay with the distance — you promised you’d let it go — but there’s a hollowness in your ribs that won’t fill. Not when he feels so close and so far all at once.

You sigh, reach for your phone, and check it for the hundredth time.

Still nothing.

You set it down with a quiet thud on the nightstand, then push yourself up, restless. You pace once to the window before you catch yourself.

And then you see it. Just a sliver at first.

Barely there — the way moonlight breaks across his blinds when they’re tilted too wide, or how the glow of his lamp leaks between the cracks. You almost don’t notice it. You’re not looking for it, not really. But your eyes find his window anyway, like they always do. Like they haven’t stopped.

You freeze.

Because they’re open.

For weeks, they’ve been closed. Tight. Like he couldn’t risk letting you see even a shadow of him. Like he was trying to cut the tether between your houses with nothing but slats of plastic.

But now?

Now the blinds are drawn just enough to see in.

And he’s there.

Joel.

He’s standing by the window, backlit by warm lamplight, his head bent low like he’s reading something. You can’t see much — the outline of his shoulders, the slope of his spine — but it’s enough. Your chest pulls tight.

You don’t move. Don’t blink.

You just watch.

At first, it feels innocent again. Like it used to — like the old evenings, when you’d glance across the street and see him moving through his house in a way that felt... comforting. Familiar. A ritual neither of you ever spoke about but always seemed to fall into.

But this time it feels different.

Because now he’s looking up.

Right at you.

Your breath stutters in your throat. You think about ducking, turning away, pretending you weren’t staring — but something about the look in his eyes stops you.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide. He just watches you.

Slowly, you step closer to your own window. Close enough that he can see your face. Not just your shape. Not just your shadow.

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But there’s something in the way his gaze softens, something that makes your stomach twist and heat crawl up your neck.

His hand moves — slow, deliberate — reaching for the chain of his blinds. You tense, thinking he’s going to close them again, disappear from view like he has so many nights before.

But he doesn’t.

He pulls them wider.

Your breath catches. Because now you see all of him.

He’s wearing a soft, worn t-shirt, clinging to the shape of his chest. His hair’s damp, like he’s just come out of the shower. There’s a crease between his brows, something tired and tense, but his body is relaxed — like he’s standing there waiting for you. Like he knew you’d be looking.

Like maybe… he was waiting too.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s you — maybe it’s the way your hand lifts, pressing against the glass as if that’ll make the space between you smaller. Or maybe it’s him — the way he shifts his stance, closer to the window now, one hand braced on the frame, the other resting low on his hip.

He’s not smiling.

But he’s not hiding either.

And God, that does something to you.

The silence of the night is louder now. You can hear the soft whir of your fan, the hum of distant traffic, the thump of your own pulse in your ears. You can feel everything — the weight of his eyes, the heat blooming beneath your skin, the ache that never really left.

Joel tilts his head. Just slightly. Like he’s asking you a question without speaking.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep watching.

And then — slowly — he brings a hand to the hem of his shirt.

He doesn’t take it off. He doesn’t do anything obvious or lewd.

He just lifts it enough to scratch at his side. A lazy, thoughtless gesture. But your eyes follow the motion like you’re starved for it. The way his stomach flexes, the glimpse of skin. Your thighs press together, instinctively, and you hate the way it feels like he knows that. Like he’s watching your reaction just as closely.

Because this isn’t innocent anymore.

This is intentional.

This is him saying: Remember.

And you’re too scared to look away. Too sad. Too hungry.

Because you want him — so much it hurts. Even after all the distance. Even after all the silence. You want him in a way that feels like surrender.

He shifts again.

Turns just slightly so you see more of his profile, his broad chest, the curve of his jaw. And when he leans forward — arms braced on the windowsill, head tilted low — it feels like gravity itself is shifting. Like the space between your houses isn’t enough to stop what’s starting.

You move without thinking.

Your fingers trail down the front of your sleep shirt. Thin cotton. Nothing underneath. And when you see his jaw clench at the sight, your breath catches.

You should stop.

You should close your blinds, turn away, pretend you don’t feel the heat blooming low in your stomach like a secret — but you don’t.

Because he’s still watching.

And he looks like he’s in pain. Like watching you is unraveling him.

His hand lifts again — slow, cautious — like he’s asking permission.

You nod. Just once.

And he unbuckles his belt.

The leather comes undone, slow and deliberate –– like he’s trying to torture you in ways you couldn’t possibly understand. He finally removes his belt, it’s like you can hear the metal clinking even through your window, feet away –– but he doesn’t undress.

His jeans now hang low on his waist, revealing deep hipbones just under his white t-shirt. His shirt rides up just enough, exposing the hair that travels, disappearing in the waistband. He sends a knowing look your way, eyebrow slightly raised, head tilted low. He’s teasing you.

A shiver escapes your lips, but it has nothing to do with the night air. What is he doing to you?

Not long ago — weeks — he told you to stay away. Made you promise. Said it was better this way, that you both needed to forget. And yet, just weeks after those words, he came to you in the dark. No warning, no reason. Just a kiss that lit a fire in your chest and then vanished with him into the shadows, leaving you gasping and hollow.

You know better than to let this go on. You’ve tried to pull away, to make the distance real. But Joel — Joel is like some toxic flower. Beautiful, intoxicating. The kind you want to keep touching even when the thorns are already cutting in.

You should shut the window. You should walk away. But instead, you vanish from the glass, knowing damn well what you're doing — leaving him aching.

Moments later, your phone buzzes.

Joel come back please

You stare at the screen. Your thumb hovers.

You No.

A pause. Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Joel you can’t just disappear like that i need to see you

You you saw me. that was the problem, remember? you’re the one who said this couldn’t happen.

A longer pause now. Maybe he’s pacing. You imagine him raking a hand through his hair, frustration carved into every line of his face.

Joel i didn’t mean it. not like that. i just... it’s complicated

You No. It’s simple. You told me to forget. I tried. You kissed me. I didn’t ask for that.

Joel but you kissed me back.

You swallow hard, your breath catching in your throat. You type. Erase. Then type again.

You doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Another pause.

Joel then come over. just for a minute. i’ll explain. no pressure. i just need to see you. please

Your fingers twitch. Everything in you says no. But the thing is, that ache he left in you — it never really went away. You press your lips together, jaw tight.

You if i come, you don’t get to disappear again.

Joel deal… wear something pretty.

You know exactly what he means by those last words, know what you’re getting yourself into. You stare at your reflection in the dark window. You already know you’re going. Just needed to hear him say it.

You slip your phone into your pocket before he can say anything else. The decision has already sunk into your bones like warm rain — inevitable.

The house is silent. You move like a ghost through the halls, toes brushing cold wood floors, heart pounding in your throat. Every creak feels like a confession. Every breath, too loud. You hesitate at the back door, one hand resting on the knob, the other curled around the edge of your jacket.

Just for a minute. That’s what he said.

But you already know a minute won’t be enough.

The night greets you with a hush, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like something big is about to happen. Joel’s house is just a few feet away. Close enough that you've memorized the way his porch light flickers.

By the time you reach his porch, your pulse is a steady drumbeat in your ears. His truck’s out front, same as always. The house is dark except for the light in the front room.

You round the corner of the porch. And there he is.

Joel’s leaning against the doorway like he’s been standing there for hours. His arms are crossed, his jaw set, but his eyes — his eyes are soft in the worst way. Like regret and want are sitting side by side behind them.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, voice low, rough from too many things unsaid.

You shrug, pretending like your heart isn’t breaking just looking at him. “You said please.”

He lets out a breath, half a laugh, like he can’t believe you’re real. Then he steps back and opens the door wider.

“Come inside.”

You hesitate for only a second. Then you cross the threshold.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds a lot like surrender.

Inside, the air feels different. Warmer. Tighter. Joel stands close, but not too close. Not yet. You can see the way his hands twitch, like he’s holding himself back.

“I wasn’t lying,” he says quietly. “When I told you it was complicated.”

You look at him. “Then explain it.”

He nods, eyes dropping to the floor for a second before they meet yours again. “I wanted to protect you from... from this. From me. I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. That I’d stop wanting you.”

“And did you?” Your voice is steadier than you feel.

He swallows hard. “Not for a damn second.”

The space between you hums like a live wire. One wrong move, and you'll both fall into it.

You take a step forward. Just one. “Then what do we do, Joel?”

He exhales, slow and ragged, and lifts a hand like he’s going to touch you — then stops himself again.

“We stop pretending it doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “And we stop lying about how we feel.”

This time, it’s you who reaches for him.

The moment your fingers curl into his shirt and you whisper, “Then stop pretending,” Joel loses it.

His mouth crashes into yours with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him for weeks. There’s no patience, no hesitation — just heat, teeth, tongue, and years of tension finally catching fire.

He’s already walking you backward, lips never leaving yours, hands gripping your waist like he can’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you straight through the wall.

You gasp against his mouth as your back hits it with a thud. “Joel—”

He shakes his head, breathing hard. “No. Don’t talk. Just—come here.”

He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the stairs, but neither of you make it gracefully. You’re tripping over each other, stumbling, laughing breathlessly between kisses. He lifts you halfway up the stairs like he can’t stand the space between your bodies, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms thrown around his shoulders.

He pins you to the wall midway up, grinding into you hard enough to draw a gasp from your throat.

“You gonna keep teasin’ me?” he mutters against your neck, biting gently.

“You gonna keep talking?” you shoot back, yanking at his jeans.

That does it. He lets out a guttural, broken sound and practically hauls you the rest of the way, mouths still crashing, hands roaming fast and rough. The stairs become a blur of groans and tangled limbs, your bodies fumbling, too impatient to care.

By the time you burst through his bedroom door, you’re both wild.

He slams the door shut behind you, doesn’t even wait to reach the bed — just presses you up against it, shoves his hands under your shirt and yanks it off like it’s offending him by existing. You tear at his in return, dragging it over his head as he kisses down your chest, your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re killing me.”

You pull him back up, crash your mouth to his again. “Then don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He lifts you, drops you onto the bed, crawling over you with that same unstoppable force. His hands are everywhere — your hips, your thighs, your jaw. He kisses you like he’s drowning in you, like if he stops, he’ll lose his mind.

“I’ve wanted you,” he groans, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “For so fucking long.”

“Show me,” you whisper, nails raking down his back.

He groans into your skin, grinding against you. “You think I haven’t imagined this? Thought about how you’d sound—how you’d feel?”

“Joel—” you gasp, hips meeting his in desperate rhythm.

He’s losing it. You both are.

You roll, straddle him, kiss him hard. He grabs your hips, guiding you as you move, both of you chasing something that’s been just out of reach for far too long.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice ragged.

You do — and that look in his eyes, that wild, almost worshipful hunger, nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

“You’re mine,” he says, like a vow. “Tonight, you’re fucking mine.”

Joel dips his head to your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin just below your ear –– creating possessive marks that you know shouldn’t be there but can’t bring yourself to stop him. You roll your hips into his crotch, needing his attention in the filthiest of ways. A small grunt slips from his lips at the friction.

“Fuck, baby girl, want me that bad?” He teases, a sly smirk displaying for you to see.

“Joel I— please.” You beg, tired of the games, tired of the complication, tired of the mess. You just want to pretend you really are his, even if it’s just for the night.

Joel doesn’t fight, doesn’t continue with the teasing –– he needs you just as bad. Flips you back over so he’s on top. One hand cups your breast, kneading the hard nub –– twisting it harshly between his fingers, sending electric shivers up your spine. His mouth catches the other, his tongue swirling in sinful ways, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin.

Your fingers curl into the back of his head, tugging slightly at the stray hairs. His eyes meet yours –– nipple still between his teeth. The site alone makes you moan his name in ways you never thought you could.

His hand trails down your stomach and pushes down your pretty, baby pink sleep shorts. Of course you weren’t wearing underwear.

“Such a slut.” Joel murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “Walkin’ to my house with no panties on. Tryin’ to tell me you didn’t come over for me to fuck you?”

Whines escape your lips as his fingers reach down, rubbing you’re already soaked cunt –– spreading your slick up to your clit.

“So wet for me. Can see you glistening. Needed me this bad, baby?”

“Joel—" You whine, body withering underneath his gaze.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s here now.” He assures, dipping his head between your thighs, lightly flicking his tongue at your ever swollen clit.

The noises leaving your mouth are sinful, filling the dimly lit room, feeling the empty house. He sucks slightly, thumb trailing rubbing between your wet folds. Your hands grab at his hair, tugging for some release. Knees now bent with your feet hanging ever so slightly in the air.

You feel your body start to shake as he easily enters his middle and ring finger inside of you –– curling once he knows he’s deep enough to have you begging.

His free palm presses slightly on the lower part of your stomach, keeping you still while his movements begin a harsh pace. Wet, disgusting noises feel the air, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to care, chasing his mouth with your trusts.

“Need my tongue?” He asks, making eye contact with you for the first time since he buried his face between your legs.

You nod your head fiercely, whining when you lose contact as he removes his fingers. The loss isn’t long missed when he quickly replaces his tongue, digging himself inside you. His thumb trails slowly up your thighs, meeting at your clit and rubbing deep circles causing you to arch into his touch.

“Joel, gonna— god I’m gonna come.” You whimper, movements now faulty, legs shaking around him and toes curling slightly.

“Wanna taste you. You can do it, babygirl, come on.”

The want you hear in his low, hoarse, voice drives you over the edge. Never hearing anyone want you that bad. Never having anyone begging for your taste. The heat coiled in your lower stomach now released –– mouth agape and eyes rolled. You can hear the lewd sounds of Joel taking you all in, not allowing any escape.

You lay there, catching your breath and admiring the site one last time of Joel between your legs. You thought this would be it, never have gone so far with him, never have even seen him naked. Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless in his dimly lit bedroom from hundreds of feet away. And when you were finally falling apart in his arms, he was clothed the whole time, never touched.

So, it came as a shock to you when Joel desperately pulls his jeans down his thighs, past his calves, and throws them on the ground –– uncared for. His boxers chase quickly after and you’re met with the sight of Joels hard, dripping, length. He’s just as big as you imagined.

He crouches over you, hand placed on the side of your head as he adjusts himself between your legs. His gaze lands on yours –– full of hunger, like you’re the last meal he’d ever have.

“You want this?” He asks. Genuinely asks –– no teasing.

“Yes.” You answer quietly, slowly wrapping your legs around his waist. “Fuck me hard.”

He smirks at the request. You have no idea what you’ve just asked for kind of look displayed on his face. You’re nervous. You’re excited. You’re ready to take him –– all of him.

He lines himself up with your entrance, giving you one last assuring look, and once he sees that you’re serious, he slams into you. No edging, no warning, no prep. A scream leaves your lips, and you quickly cover your mouth with you own hands.

“No, let me hear you.” He demands, removing your hands. “Wanna hear my pretty girl’s cry.”

You move your hands to his biceps, digging your nails deep into him –– defiantly leaving marks. He gives you exactly what you asked for as your screams fill the dim room. Joels movements so harsh, so steady, the sound of skin hitting against skin drowning itself into your ear.

His gaze lingers at the sight of you taking him in, all of him. He watches the filthy sight, groaning every time he sees himself disappear between your thighs. Watching how his shaft is glistening with your juices when he pulls out again.

“Look at you. Handlin’ this like such a good girl.” He grunts, facing you. “My girl takin’ all of me.”

You grab each side of his cheeks, stray tears leaving your eyes at the firey contact between your legs. He’s being so harsh with you, so mean. But his words suggest otherwise. You want to be so good for him, you want him to have his way.

“You okay, baby girl?” As he bends down, kissing each tear. His concern couldn’t be more comforting. You nod your head. I want this.

He offers you a mischievous smile at the answer, arms now wrapping around your knees, pushing your legs to your chest to get himself in the deepest position. A deep moan escapes his lips at the feeling.

He starts slow, pacing to get you prepared and ready, but seeing you’re already scratching his back at the contact, his pace quickens –– the sound of loud smacks and the headboard banging against the wall over power your moans.

You feel his movements become unsteady as he pushes your legs as far as he can, almost folding you in half as if he could place you in his pocket — and then he thrusts deeper, harder, as if trying to crawl inside you, to stay there.

His grip tightens, his pace turns frantic, and when he finally loses control, it’s with your name ripped from his throat and his body trembling above yours, like you’ve shattered something vital in him.

And when he finally flips, pulls you down onto him, the world splits open. You’re now in his lap, but you’re not in control. His thrusts still deep inside you as his hands grip at you hips –– holding you there as if you were to escape.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

It’s pure, feral need. A collision of bodies, of emotion, of everything you’ve both denied.

You’re kissing between moans, holding on for dear life, moving like the world might end tomorrow — and maybe it already has, because nothing else exists except this. Joel, beneath you, inside you, gripping you like you’re the only thing that’s ever felt real.

And you — burning alive in his hands, coming apart under every word he groans into your skin, every thrust, every whispered “God, I missed you.”

The bed rocks. The headboard slams. Your name breaks off his lips like a prayer.

And you feel him twitch deep inside of you, head thrown back, breath hitched. He’s warm inside of you, dripping out slowly down your thighs and around his shaft where he still sits inside.

You collapse onto his chest, your limbs weak, lungs pulling in ragged breaths that still can’t quite catch up to your racing heart. Joel’s arm is already around you, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His skin is warm, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. You listen to the thrum of his heartbeat — it’s fast, chaotic, like yours — and somehow, that grounds you more than anything else.

Neither of you speak for a moment. There’s no need.

His hand finds your hair, fingers slowly combing through it in lazy, distracted strokes. You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, lulled by the rhythmic movement and the soft sound of his breathing.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, his voice low and rough, still wrecked from what just passed between you.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah.”

He tilts his head, kisses the top of yours — slow, gentle, lingering. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “You were perfect.”

You feel the breath leave his lungs at that, like your words hit something deep inside him.

For a moment, he just keeps playing with your hair, grounding himself in the softness of you. Then you feel him shift beneath you, moving with quiet purpose. Finally pulling himself out.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs.

You groan softly in protest, but he presses another kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running, a drawer opening, something rustling. When he returns, he’s holding a warm, damp towel and one of his shirts.

Joel sits at the edge of the bed and gently parts your legs, eyes scanning your face for any hesitation. “Just let me take care of you,” he says quietly.

You nod, throat tight.

His touch is tender, soft, as he cleans you up — his fingers slow, like this is his way of saying all the things he doesn’t quite know how to say aloud. When he finishes, he slips the oversized shirt over your head, pulling it gently down your arms.

You catch him staring at you in it — his shirt, your skin — and there’s something in his eyes that isn’t just lust. It’s something quieter. Something closer to wonder.

Joel climbs into bed beside you, pulls the blanket up over both of you, and gathers you into his arms like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like you belong there.

His fingers find your hair again, idly twirling strands between them.

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

His hand stills in your hair. “I never stopped missing you.”

And in the quiet that follows, everything feels still. Safe. Real.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re running.

You just feel at home.

a/n: I am so sorry this took forever for me to post!!

@locaparapedrito @vickie5446 @thewritergx

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filthyjoelslvr · 23 days ago

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finna write a tommy oneshot fr

Jackson's afternoons with Tommy Miller

(I need Gabriel Luna SO bad I'm shaking n crying it's not FAIR)

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filthyjoelslvr · 29 days ago

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memorial day

Content: Dbf!Joel x Reader

Synop: What was supposed to be a quiet Memorial Day at the lake turns into something far more complicated when long-held tension finally snaps. In the stillness of the woods, boundaries blur and secrets take root—ones that can’t be easily forgotten once the sun rises.

Warnings: No!Outbreak Joel, No use of y/n, degradtion kink, pet names (babygirl, little girl, sweer heart), Mean joel (kinda, calls reader a slut), Joel tries make you feel guilty kink?, Creampie, No protectipn pnv, fingering, honestly just kind of disgusting in a sexy way? Public (kinda but no one’s around), in front of your daddy but he’s sleeping (so sorry for this)

Word Count: 10k

(dividers by: @strangergraphics)

Memorial Day in Texas feels less like a holiday and more like a dare — how long can you stand the heat before it breaks you? The sun comes up early and mean, baking the pavement by 9 a.m., turning leather car seats into griddles and the air into something thick enough to choke on. That’s why you escape to the lake every year, just far enough outside Austin that the water feels cleaner, cooler, like a secret. You pack light: cutoff denim shorts, a thin knit sweater, and the one bikini you know will get noticed — black, high-cut, a little more grown than anyone at the lake last saw you in. Joel shows up in his usual: a faded black tank that hugs his shoulders and clings in all the wrong places once it’s soaked through, swim shorts, and that same damn baseball cap he’s had for years, sweat-stained and stubborn. He looks like summer and trouble, and maybe that’s why you hate the heat a little less when he’s around.

Joel and your dad go way back — not college buddies or some childhood thing, but the kind of friendship that forms in real life, under pressure. They met working construction in their twenties, two guys figuring it out as they went, both with young families, both struggling to make ends meet but still finding a way to laugh at the end of the day. Joel had Sarah, just a baby then. Your dad had you, and your mom — back when life was loud and full, and holidays meant cookouts, not silence.

Every memory you have of childhood, Joel’s somewhere in the background. Fixing the AC in the middle of a heatwave. Bringing over brisket and cheap beer. Holding a sleeping Sarah while your mom made peach cobbler. The two families blurred into one, easy and natural — until your mom got sick. And after she passed, it wasn’t your dad who held things together. It was Joel.

He never made a big show of it. Just… showed up. For you, for your dad. Quiet help — rides to school when your dad forgot, groceries in the fridge, fixed leaky sinks without asking. Never stepped into your mother’s space, but never let either of you fall too far, either. And when your dad was too broken to be fully present, Joel was the one who kept you grounded.

Sarah’s grown now — lives a couple states away, working, in love, building her own life. Joel’s divorced. Has been for years. It wasn’t messy, just one of those things that runs its course. He stayed in Texas. Stayed close. And you? You never really stopped orbiting him, even when you left for school, even when life moved on.

Now you’re older. Old enough to see Joel not just as the man who helped raise you, but as a man. Strong, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous now. Your dad still calls him his best friend. Still trusts him more than anyone. And that’s the line you know you’re not supposed to cross.

But sometimes Joel looks at you like he’s not sure if you already have.

Memorial Day at the lake was tradition — not something anyone ever questioned, just something that happened, like clockwork. Every year, the same plan: your dad would pack the truck with coolers full of beer and whatever meat he felt like over-seasoning, Joel would bring the boat and the old rusted grill that somehow still worked, and you'd toss in towels, sunscreen, and the too-small duffel bag that always carried your swimsuit and a second pair of dry clothes you never ended up needing. The three of you had been doing it for as long as you could remember — back when Sarah was still small enough to cling to Joel’s back in the water and you were too shy to take off your shirt in front of anyone. Back when your mom would make cold pasta salad in a giant plastic bowl and yell at your dad for forgetting the ice. Even after she passed, even when Sarah got older and stopped coming, the tradition didn’t break. It shifted. Tightened. Became something quieter and more sacred. Just the three of you — a long weekend of sunburns and smoky air, Joel manning the grill with a beer in hand, your dad blasting classic rock from a busted speaker, and you stretched out on the dock, toes in the water, pretending not to notice the way Joel’s voice dipped when he talked to you. It wasn’t about the holiday. It was about the ritual. About holding on to something that still felt right, even when everything else had changed.

The drive to the lake always felt longer than it was, but maybe that was just the heat — or maybe it was because you were crammed into the backseat of Joel's truck, half-napping against the window, pretending not to listen to the familiar back-and-forth between your dad and him. They talked like they always did — like no time had passed. About work, traffic on I-35, the price of gas, whether the water level at the lake would be high or low this year.

You kept your sunglasses on and didn’t say much, letting their voices hum in the background like static. The sun was already hot, even before noon, and the AC in Joel's truck gave up halfway into the drive. You were sweating through your sweater and silently cursing the denim shorts that now felt painted on. Still, you didn’t regret what you’d packed — especially the black bikini tucked under your clothes. It was a little bold, sure, but after last year’s Memorial Day trip, when Joel didn’t even look twice at you, you’d decided this year you weren’t going to fade into the background. Not again.

The truck finally turned down the familiar gravel road, and the air changed — lighter, full of cedar and lakewater and something nostalgic. The trees parted to reveal the same sagging dock, and that wide, glinting stretch of water that made it all worth it.

You were the first one out of the truck.

Joel didn’t say anything as he grabbed the rope from the bed and headed toward the water. You watched from the edge of the dock as he worked — pulling the cover off the boat, checking the fuel, tying off lines with practiced ease. He hadn’t changed much, at least not in ways that made him any easier to look away from. His tank top was sun-bleached and clinging just enough to show the shape of him — broad shoulders, strong arms, tan skin gone golden under the sun. His hat shaded his face, but you still caught glimpses of his eyes when he glanced up, squinting toward the glare.

He hadn’t even taken his sunglasses off yet, and still you felt like he could see right through you.

There was something hypnotic about watching him work — the steadiness in his hands, the little grunt he made when something stuck, the way he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, unaware or just unaffected by the fact that you were staring. He’d always had this calm, capable energy that made you feel safe without even trying. But now, older, clearer-eyed, it hit different. It settled low in your stomach. Pulled at you.

Your dad was still fiddling with the cooler in the truck bed, grumbling about forgetting charcoal, oblivious. But Joel? Joel caught your eye for just a second as he stepped onto the boat. He smirked — subtle, knowing.

“Water’s perfect,” he called out. “You bring that swimsuit or just plan on lookin’ hot and sweaty all day?”

You blinked, then laughed, heart kicking.

He turned away before you could answer, already back to work. But that one line sat with you. Because he said it so easy. Like he didn’t even realize what it sounded like.

Or maybe he did.

It didn’t take Joel long to finish up with the boat. He moved with that quiet focus he always had — checking the motor, untangling ropes, kicking open the storage compartments to toss in life vests and the warped foam noodles your dad refused to throw away. Once everything looked good, your dad finally hauled the first cooler down from the truck, grunting like it weighed more than it did, and Joel stepped in without a word to help. The two of them moved in sync, loading up the boat with bags of chips, beer, and the pre-wrapped burgers your dad insisted on grilling even though it was already 90 degrees.

You lingered on the dock, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really just watching. Waiting.

Joel hopped back onto the boat and opened a beer with the edge of the cooler, leaning against the railing like it was second nature. His tank top stuck to his chest now, damp with sweat, and his skin had already started to flush from the sun. He wasn’t looking at you — not directly. But you caught the shift in his stance when you stood up. The way his body stilled. The flick of his eyes under the brim of that damn hat.

Time to make it worth it.

You peeled off your clothes slow — first the sweater, then the shorts — and folded them with deliberate care, placing them neatly at the edge of the dock. The air hit your skin all at once, and the black bikini felt suddenly bolder than it had in your bedroom mirror. High-cut, low-backed, with just enough give to make you feel dangerous.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just walked over to the lounge chair and grabbed your tanning oil from your bag, unscrewing the cap with one hand while the other smoothed your hair back off your shoulders. Then, you started to apply it — slow, intentional, dragging your palms over your arms, then down your legs, gliding over your stomach like you had all the time in the world.

Only then did you glance up.

Joel was mid-sip of his beer, but it had stalled halfway to his mouth. His gaze was locked — not openly, not in a way anyone else would notice — but you saw it. The way his eyes trailed down the curve of your body and then quickly darted back to the boat like he hadn’t just undressed you all over again with one look.

You smiled to yourself.

This swimsuit was a good choice.

He tried to play it off, mumbling something to your dad and rummaging through a bag that definitely didn’t need rummaging. But you caught it again — the second glance, lower this time. And when you lifted one leg to rub oil into your calf, his jaw flexed hard enough to make your chest flutter.

You leaned back on your elbows, soaking up the sun. Letting him look. Letting him want.

For the first time, you weren’t the one being watched like a kid. And Joel? He wasn’t hiding it nearly as well as he thought.

The boat eased away from the dock with a low hum, the water shimmering under the sun like molten glass. Joel was at the front, one hand on the throttle, the other resting on the wheel like he’d been born to drive this thing. He wore those same dark sunglasses, and the breeze whipped his shirt against his chest as the boat picked up speed, slicing through the lake with smooth confidence.

You laid back across one of the cushioned benches, sunglasses on, letting the sun kiss every inch of your oiled skin. Your dad was futzing around with a Bluetooth speaker that kept cutting in and out, alternating between classic rock and static. Occasionally, he’d call out to Joel to steer left or point out a cove they’d used to fish in, but mostly, it was quiet — lazy and warm, the kind of afternoon that felt suspended in time.

Eventually, Joel cut the engine. The boat bobbed gently in the middle of the lake, surrounded by nothing but water, hills, and heat. He stood up and stretched, back arching just enough to make your mouth go a little dry, then kicked off his shoes.

Without a word, he jumped.

The splash was loud, and when he surfaced a few feet from the boat, his hair was pushed back and dripping, face slick with lake water and sun, his grin wide and boyish in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. The wet tank clung to his chest for a second before he pulled it off and tossed it onto the deck behind him.

You didn’t even try to pretend you weren’t looking.

His shoulders, tanned and cut, gleamed in the light, droplets racing down the planes of his chest. His laugh was low and easy as he treaded water.

“C’mon,” he called out. “Water’s perfect.”

“Don’t pressure her,” your dad said — right before cannonballing in beside him, creating a second wave of water that sloshed against the side of the boat.

You groaned and pushed your sunglasses up. “I’m good right here.”

They both resurfaced, grinning, ganging up like clockwork.

“Aw, come on,” your dad called. “You used to be the first one in!”

“Used to,” you shot back, stretching out further, crossing one oiled leg over the other. “Now I’m grown and civilized.”

Joel smirked, running a hand back through his wet hair. “Grown, huh? That why you’re afraid to get your hair wet now?”

You narrowed your eyes behind your sunglasses. “Not afraid. Just not stupid.”

Joel floated closer, arms lazily pushing through the water. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just scared we’ll splash you.”

“You will splash me.”

“We will,” he agreed, grinning. “That’s half the fun.”

You shook your head and leaned back with a sigh of exaggerated contentment. “I’m on beer duty. Go play.”

Your dad laughed and turned away, swimming toward the back of the boat.

Joel just lingered there, watching you.

“I give up,” he finally said with a dramatic sigh. “Toss me a beer, will ya?”

“Fine.” You sat up, grabbing a cold one from the cooler, condensation already sliding down the side of the can. You shuffled over to the edge of the boat where Joel was floating and leaned over the railing to hand it to him, the sun warming your back.

And that’s when he struck.

His hand shot up, wrapping around your wrist, and before you could even yelp, he tugged — hard.

You gasped, tried to pull back, but the slippery deck offered no grip. The world tilted for a split second — sun, sky, Joel’s smirk — and then you hit the water with a splash that stole the breath right out of you.

Cold and shocking, but somehow still perfect.

You surfaced with a sputter, pushing your wet hair out of your face, eyes wide as Joel laughed loud and unrepentant. He backed away in the water, arms raised like he was innocent.

“Joel!” you shouted, splashing water at him furiously.

He just grinned. “Told you it was perfect.”

Your dad howled with laughter in the distance.

You blinked the water from your lashes, glaring — but it was hard to stay mad when Joel was right there, water dripping from his jaw, that same damn smirk on his face, and your heart beating just a little too fast in your chest.

Maybe falling in wasn’t so bad after all.

After Joel yanked you into the water, it was full-on war.

You splashed him until your arms ached, trying to keep up with how fast he moved in the water. Your dad jumped in to “defend” you, which really just turned into him dunking Joel under like they were ten years old again. The lake echoed with laughter — yours louder than it had been in a long time — and the heat of the afternoon felt less suffocating when you were weightless, drifting in cool water, surrounded by two people who’d known you your whole life.

You forgot about the sunburn slowly forming across your shoulders. Forgot about time.

At some point, Joel disappeared under the surface, only to pop up right behind you and lift you up out of the water in one strong motion, tossing you with a triumphant shout. You hit the water laughing, kicking toward him, yelling his name like a threat, even though you weren’t really mad.

Eventually, the chaos quieted. You all settled into the stillness that always came after the burst of play — muscles heavy, voices softer, the heat stretching out like molasses.

Joel pulled a pool noodle under his arms, head tilted back, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. You found a floatie — one of those half-deflated recliner ones — and climbed on, letting your legs hang over the sides. Your dad drifted between you, occasionally humming along to the music still playing faintly from the boat’s speaker.

The water rocked everyone gently. It was the kind of peace that didn’t need words.

After a while, your dad cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, paddling toward the boat. “Time to get the grill set up before I pass out from hunger.”

You cracked one eye open.

Joel just grunted a lazy, “Mmm.”

Your dad laughed and climbed back aboard, the boat tilting slightly under his weight. He moved around the deck, opening the cooler again, mumbling about lighter fluid and forgetting to bring the damn tongs.

You stayed where you were — drifting, warm, weightless.

Joel floated a few feet away, arms still hooked over the noodle, chest rising and falling slow. He glanced your way, and for a second, it felt like the sun paused in the sky.

The water between you shimmered. Quiet. Charged.

And your dad was just close enough to feel like a buffer, but far enough not to hear a word.

The water lapped gently around you, lazy and warm now in the late afternoon heat. Your float rocked with each soft ripple, and somewhere behind you, your dad moved around the boat, metal clinking as he got the grill ready. The smell of charcoal drifted faintly on the breeze, mixing with cedar, sunscreen, and the soft churn of lakewater.

Joel was still there — a few feet away, noodle tucked under his arms, sunglasses low on his nose. He hadn’t said anything in a while. Just floated. Watched.

You tried not to look at him. You really did. But the way the sun hit his skin, all bronze and wet, his hair slicked back from the water, neck beading with droplets—it wasn’t easy. He looked like something out of a dream you didn’t even know you had permission to have.

“You’re quiet,” you said finally, your voice soft, breaking the thick silence between you.

Joel’s lips quirked just a little. “So are you.”

You shrugged. “It’s peaceful out here.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes scanning the sky, the tree line, the lazy ripple of the water before finally settling on you again.

“You always liked it out here,” he said. “Even when you were little. You’d float around like you were made of water. Never wanted to get out.”

You smiled at the memory. “That hasn’t changed much.”

Joel let out a quiet chuckle, deep and low in his chest. “No. Guess it hasn’t.”

A beat passed. Then two. The space between your float and his noodle shrank slightly with the movement of the water, just enough to feel noticeable. Intentional.

“You surprised me today,” he said, not quite looking at you. “With that suit.”

You turned your head toward him slowly, heartbeat ticking up.

“Why’s that?”

He finally looked you dead-on, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his gaze. He didn’t smile this time. His voice dropped, lower than before.

“Because you’re you're getting older.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed, throat tight.

“Yeah,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”

The water between you stilled.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back again, the movement slow — almost nervous. You’d never seen him like that. Not around you. He cleared his throat and looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something in his expression. Hunger. Conflict. Restraint.

Your float drifted a little closer.

“Joel,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t have to pretend you didn’t look.”

That got his attention. He looked at you again, this time with something raw in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped. “Well. Maybe I did.”

Your stomach flipped.

Behind you, your dad cursed loudly about the propane tank, and the spell broke. Joel sat up straighter, turned toward the boat, jaw tight again like he’d reeled himself back in.

You let the silence take over again, but it felt different now — full of everything that had just passed between you. Everything that had almost happened.

And maybe still could.

The quiet between you stretched out, heavy but magnetic. Joel hadn’t moved much — just floated close, close enough that the water brushing your leg might’ve been him. You didn’t know for sure until you felt it again — firmer this time, deliberate. A hand, slipping beneath the surface, fingers grazing the curve of your hip where the waterline met your bikini.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his face turned toward the boat, the sun glinting off the water between you. His fingers moved slowly, barely there — a slow stroke of skin just under the surface, hidden from view. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t pushing, just touching. Like he was testing if he could. If you’d let him.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say a word.

Your pulse fluttered in your throat, and the rest of the world faded down to water, skin, and the electricity building in that sliver of space between your float and his.

And then—

“Alright, you two, let’s go,” your dad called, loud and casual, from the boat.

The hand vanished instantly, like it had never been there at all. You jerked upright a little too fast, water splashing against your float. Joel cleared his throat and turned, swimming a couple strokes toward the boat.

Your heart thudded hard, heat crawling up your neck — not from the sun this time.

You glanced at your dad, trying to read his expression, but he didn’t look suspicious. If he’d seen anything, he didn’t let on. He was leaning against the railing, grinning like always, waving you in.

“Got the coals lit. We’re losing daylight,” he called. “Come on before Joel drinks all the beer.”

Joel climbed aboard first, grabbing your hand to help you up like nothing had happened. His grip was firm, steady, but when your eyes met, there was a flash of something there — something unspoken and sharp. He let go a beat too late.

You dried off quickly and pulled your sweater back on, trying to steady your breath while your dad moved around the grill, humming off-key to the music now coming in clear from the speaker. Joel cracked open another beer and stood beside him, the two of them falling back into their usual rhythm — arguing about burger doneness, who forgot to pack the cheese, and whether it was too late to drive into town for firewood. Then Joel drove everyone back to land.

You busied yourself spreading the picnic blanket across the little patch of shaded grass just off the dock once the boat was tied. You laid out the paper plates, napkins, the tub of potato salad your dad insisted on bringing every year even though it always got warm too fast. Your skin was still damp, hair clinging to the back of your neck, but your hands moved automatically. Anything to give you something to do. Anything to keep from glancing at Joel too much.

Dinner was easy. The way it always was — plates balanced on laps, beer bottles sweating in the grass, food that tasted better because it had been earned by sun and laughter and a long day on the water. The three of you sat in a triangle on the blanket, your dad telling a story you’d already heard twice before about the time he and Joel got stranded in the middle of the highway with a flat tire and a cooler full of melted ice.

You laughed. You always did. Joel added the same sarcastic commentary he always did, flicking a bottlecap at your dad’s arm mid-story.

But every now and then, you felt his eyes on you.

Quick glances over his bottle. A flash of tongue licking grease off his thumb. His knee brushing yours and staying just a moment too long before shifting away again.

The food disappeared fast. Your dad leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his plate empty, beer in hand, already talking about grilling breakfast tomorrow. But you weren’t listening to the words.

You were listening to the tension. To the silence pulsing just under the surface — not between all three of you, but between you and Joel.

Something had shifted.

And even if no one said it out loud… it was there now.

Undeniable.

The sun had started to dip behind the lake by the time you were clearing the last of the paper plates, the sky washed in deep orange and fading gold. The lake glimmered in the distance, still and endless now, and the heat had finally loosened its grip, replaced by a breeze that whispered through the trees and lifted strands of your damp hair off your shoulders.

Joel had already gotten a fire going, the crackle of burning wood filling the space where conversation had died down. They had made the drive into town for firewood, and he’d stacked it just right—tight and efficient, like he did everything. He stood nearby now, feeding another log into the flames, face lit up in flickering amber, a cigarette tucked between two fingers and a beer balanced in the other.

Your dad was off to the side, tying the last corner of the old camping hammock he swore by. It hung between two trees just a little ways back from the fire pit, swaying gently in the breeze. He always staked that spot for himself come nighttime—said it was the best seat in the house for stargazing and s’mores.

You tossed the last bag of trash into the bin and wiped your hands on your shorts, making your way back toward the fire just as Joel lowered himself into one of the folding chairs with a groan and a muttered, “My knees weren’t built for this much swimming.”

You grinned and sat in the chair next to him, close enough that your knees brushed his for a moment before you tucked them up under yourself.

Your dad had finally settled in his hammock, beer in one hand, bag of marshmallows resting on his chest. He’d already started humming to himself, eyes barely open, the kind of blissed-out contentment only someone who’d grilled three burgers and floated in the sun for hours could feel.

Joel passed you the cigarette without a word. You took it between your fingers and inhaled, the smoke curling warm in your chest as you exhaled into the fading light. He lit another for himself and leaned back in his chair, his free hand lazily strumming the strings of the battered old acoustic guitar he kept in the truck. He hadn’t played all day, but now, as the sun gave way to dusk, he let the music slip out like muscle memory.

It was low and slow — something old and familiar, something that melted into the firelight like it belonged there.

You sipped your beer and watched him, your legs stretched out toward the warmth of the flames. His fingers moved with casual grace, the melody floating softly into the night. The guitar glowed in the light, the wood darkened from years of playing, his hand resting easily on the neck like it was part of him.

Your dad let out a soft snore, the marshmallows rolling off his chest and into the hammock with a rustle. Neither of you moved to wake him.

You just sat there, under a sky turning dark, with the lake at your back and the fire between you and Joel. The smoke, the heat, the music — it all felt thick and quiet and close.

Joel didn’t say anything, but he looked at you once through the smoke, the firelight catching in his eyes. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement.

It was just there.

Whatever this was between you — it was burning too.

The fire had burned down to a slow, steady glow, casting everything in warm gold and flickering shadows. Crickets chirped lazily in the brush, and the trees creaked quietly in the breeze. Your dad was fully asleep now, gently rocking in his hammock with a soft snore escaping every few breaths, a beer bottle still clutched loosely to his chest like a trophy.

You and Joel hadn’t spoken in a while. You didn’t need to.

He kept playing — quieter now, slower — until even that faded into silence. His hand stilled on the strings, and the only sounds left were the crackle of wood and the distant lap of water against the dock.

He set the guitar down beside his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette burning low between two fingers. For a moment, you just watched the smoke curl up into the night sky, your heart beating slow but loud in your chest.

Then his voice, low and rough, cut through the quiet.

“You ever think about how different everything would’ve been if life had gone the way we planned?”

You turned your head, eyes catching the way the firelight touched his face — carving out every line, every shadow. He looked older here. Softer, in the dark. Like he didn’t have to hold up the weight of everything for once.

“I try not to,” you admitted, tucking your knees closer to your chest. “Doesn’t do much good.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew what you were going to say.

“I used to think there was only one way to be a good man,” he said after a pause. “And I followed that as best I could. Worked hard. Stayed in my lane. Kept my hands clean.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“But then life starts rewriting all your rules,” he murmured, flicking ash into the fire. “And suddenly… there’s this person you shouldn’t want. Someone you can’t want.”

The words hung there between you. Unsaid, but completely understood.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t look away from him.

“You didn’t stop yourself earlier,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said, eyes meeting yours now, steady and heavy and raw. “Didn’t want to.”

Neither of you moved. The night was a living thing between you, breathing and buzzing and watching. Your heartbeat was in your throat. In your fingertips. You wondered if he could hear it.

His voice dropped, barely more than a rasp. “You didn’t stop me either.”

“I didn’t want to,” you echoed back, just as quiet.

Joel’s hand shifted slightly, resting on his knee. Close to yours. Not touching, but close. You could feel the heat of him there, even in the night air.

He leaned in, just a little.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Been tryin’ not to. But it’s gettin’ harder.”

The admission landed like a weight in your chest. A tremble ran through your limbs — not fear, not nerves. Just want.

You looked at him — really looked. His face was lit by fire and memory. His eyes weren’t guarded now. They were open. Vulnerable. Honest.

“I think about you too,” you whispered.

Neither of you moved right away.

But the shift had already happened.

And nothing was going to be the same after tonight.

The fire crackled, shifting slightly as a log split open with a soft pop, sending a shower of embers drifting into the dark like fireflies. Joel watched them float up, his hand still near yours, his knee brushing against you when he shifted, like he didn’t even realize he was reaching for closeness—or maybe he did.

You didn’t pull away.

He exhaled slow, like he was choosing his next words with care.

“I notice things about you now,” he said quietly. “Things I didn’t let myself see before.”

You turned toward him, pulse picking up. “Like what?”

His jaw flexed, and for a second he didn’t answer. Then he looked at you — really looked. Like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“The way you look when you think no one’s watching,” he said. “How quiet you get when you’re trying not to say what you’re feeling. The way you walk around like you don’t know how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. Your fingers twitched in your lap.

“And it’s wrong,” he added, softer now. “You’re—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, your voice just above a whisper. “Don’t pull that card.”

Joel stared at you, something stormy in his eyes. “He’s my best friend.”

“And I’m not a child,” you said firmly, but not harshly. “You know I’m not.”

He didn’t argue.

The silence that followed was louder than the fire.

You leaned back slightly, heart thudding, the space between you sparking like it had its own pulse.

“I used to think you didn’t see me at all,” you admitted. “Like I was invisible to you.”

Joel turned his head slowly, regret written clear in the lines around his mouth.

“I saw you,” he said. “I saw everything. That was the problem.”

Your breath caught. You felt it, then — how much he meant it. How long he’d been holding this in. The restraint hadn’t just been recent. It had roots.

“I used to convince myself it was just a crush,” you said. “That it would go away. But it didn’t. It got worse.”

Joel’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you. Like maybe if he held your gaze long enough, he’d find the strength to walk away… or the excuse not to.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said finally, voice rough. “Don’t want to be a mistake you regret.”

You reached for his hand then, slowly, your fingertips brushing his knuckles.

“Then don’t be,” you said softly. “But don’t pretend this isn’t real either.”

Joel didn’t move at first. Just stared at your hand against his like it might burn him.

Then—finally—his fingers turned, lacing with yours.

The touch was simple. No rush.

But it meant everything.

The line had been crossed, not with a kiss, but with the truth.

And there was no going back now.

Joel’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and steady, the callouses on his fingers rough against your skin in a way that made your chest ache.

He looked down at your joined hands like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like part of him still expected you to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you gave his hand the faintest squeeze.

That was all it took.

He stood without a word, still holding your hand, and gave a subtle nod toward the tree line just past the fire. You understood him without needing to ask. Not here. Not with your dad half-snoring in the hammock just ten feet away.

You rose and followed him, the fire casting long shadows behind you as you stepped off the blanket, your bare feet brushing over dry grass and soft pine needles. Joel led you just far enough away that the firelight flickered at your backs, barely kissing the edge of your shoulders now — just far enough for the dark to feel like privacy.

The air was cooler in the trees. Quieter.

He stopped near the base of a tall cedar, the branches low and swaying gently above. He dropped your hand slowly, like it hurt to let it go, but didn’t step away.

You were standing close now. Closer than you’d dared all day.

The silence between you was no longer awkward or tentative — it was expectant.

Joel looked at you for a long moment, something stormy and unreadable behind his eyes.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice rough, low.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

That was it.

Whatever thread had been holding him back finally snapped.

He stepped forward and reached up, his fingers brushing your jaw, then settling along the curve of your neck. His hand was warm, steady. Your breath hitched as his thumb dragged slowly beneath your ear, the gentleness of the touch at complete odds with the fire in his eyes.

He leaned in.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Like he was memorizing every second before it finally happened.

And then, with a low breath that barely touched your skin—

His lips met yours.

It was careful at first. Tentative. A test.

But the moment you exhaled against him — the moment your mouth parted and your hands found his chest — Joel deepened the kiss with a quiet, broken sound in his throat, like he’d been holding it in for years.

His hand slid down, resting at your waist, the other cupping the side of your face. The pressure of his mouth grew more certain, more hungry, and your body tilted into his instinctively, drawn to his warmth like gravity.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, but it was full — of everything you hadn’t said, everything you hadn’t dared to let yourself want until now.

And as the fire crackled behind you and the stars blinked into the dark sky above, Joel kissed you like he’d wanted to for a long, long time.

And now that he finally had you, he wasn’t letting go.

The kiss deepened, his lip biting your bottom one for an invitation inside. You parted your mouth wider, allowing his tongue to slip through, tasting every inch of your hot, wet mouth. Meeting his tongue with yours in a war of dominance that he, of course, won.

His hands trailed down from your waist to the front of your shorts, unbuttoning the silver stud that glowed in the fading firelight. The zipper was loud in the quiet of the night, and you instinctively turned your head around the trees to look back at your dad — make sure he was still sound asleep.

"Don’t worry about him, babygirl," Joel said, his voice low and rough as his hand came up and gripped your cheek with just enough force to make you gasp. He turned your face back to his, eyes dark. "He’s too deep in the beer to know what year it is.”

His hands continued fumbling with your shorts, dragging them down your thighs and revealing the black swimsuit underneath — still damp from the earlier swim. His hands grab at the revealing skin of your ass, pulling you closer until your rubbing against the hard outline of him.

You drop your mouth in a moan — feeling how big he is just underneath the polyester material of his shorts. His hands slip under your bottoms now, giving him full access to the plump skin. He harshly grabs and pulls at your ass, grinding you against himself — sucking in sharp breaths everytime you meet his already wet tip soaking through his shorts.

His hands, now feeling like fire against your skin, trail up your stomach, tracing the thread of shadow on your skin. He pulls your shirt off, exposing just how tiny your bikini really is.

“You did this for me, didn’t you?” He smirks, letting a small laugh escape.

You try to shake your head no, but he can see right through it.

“No, you did. Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” He assures, as his fingers trace the outline of your hardening nipple through the material of your swimsuit.

“God, Joel, just fuck me.” You beg, bucking your hips to meet his. You want to rip off your swimsuit—and his—and reveal the naked bodies hidden underneath. You want to see him, all of him. And you want him to see all of you too.

But he only shakes his head, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at his lips. “So desperate for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His fingers trail just shy of where you need them, deliberate in their torment. “I’m not rushing a damn thing. I’ve waited a whole year for this—ever since last Memorial Day, I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Dreaming about this.”

The confession catches you off guard—your breath stutters, heart skipping a beat—because last Memorial Day, he’d barely looked at you, all cool glances and casual distance, while you’d spent the whole day trying not to stare. You had no idea he’d been thinking the same things, wanting the same things, all that time.

He pulls down the black material, your tits bouncing out—begging for his attention, stealing the show. Your nipples are perked so painfully, needing his touch, his mouth. But he just watches them, gaze slow and heavy, like he’s memorizing the way they look—like the sight alone is something he means to savor.

Finally, his fingers brush over the nubs, sending an electric sensation down your spine, all the way to the wetting of your bottoms.

“Fuck, look at you. Beggin' for me.” He growls, never meeting your eyes. “Want my mouth? Huh, babygirl?”

You nod, too quickly to be graceful, too eager to hide—and maybe it would’ve been embarrassing, how desperate you are, if not for the heat curling low in your belly, if not for the way the air between you feels too thick to breathe. There’s no room for shame, not with this kind of need.

The desperation is enough for his head to dip down, mouth meeting your nipple—sucking ever so slowly but harsh enough to cause your back to arch into him. His fingers grab at your free breast, twirling and pulling.

You want to moan so badly, to allow him to hear exactly what he’s doing to you, but with your dad only yards away, you can’t risk the moment. So you let the harsh breaths spill from your lips, unrestrained and deliberate—each one a quiet plea, a wordless invitation. Loud enough for him to hear your want, raw enough to show you crave more.

His mouth pulls away from your hardened nub with a loud pop, causing you to shake at the loss. But the feeling doesn’t last long when he slides his hand down your bikini bottom, feeling your slick between your folds.

“So wet for me.” He groans, rubbing your clit in slow, deliberate motions—a gasp leaving you. “Fuck, is this what I do to you, baby girl?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and heat, like he can’t quite believe the way you’re falling apart for him.

His mouth finds the tender hollow beneath your neck, lips claiming the skin with bruising intent, each mark a promise that will bloom dark and visible by morning. But he doesn’t care—can’t. His tongue follows in slow, soothing strokes, tracing over the wounds he’s made like an afterthought of kindness, like a quiet act of worship for the damage he’s left behind.

His fingers trial slowly down from your aching clit, throbbing at the loss, and to your entrance. He pauses when he meets just where you need him most, fingers slick with your need and want.

You grind down on his fingers, needing him—desperation overcoming you, making you look like a complete mess under his gaze. His eyes lock with yours, molten with desire, thick with unspoken want—and yet, behind the burn, there’s a glint of playful cruelty, like he’s savoring every second of your unraveling.

“Beg for it.” He demands, fingers still hovering under your entrance.

“Wh– What?” you manage, thrown off balance by the weight of his voice. But his expression doesn't waver—there’s no joke in him, only something deep and commanding, something that leaves no room for doubt.

“I said,” he breathes, leaning in so close his lips nearly brush your ear, his heated breath stirring a trail of tingling fire down your neck. “Fucking beg for it.”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the change—the gentle words vanished, leaving only a teasing edge behind. Somewhere deep down, you know he won’t call you “sweetheart” again tonight. Not now. Not while this game is just beginning. You know you’re going to like this, what with you now dripping all over his hovering hand.

“Joel…” you whisper, breath trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation. You’ve never dared to cross this line before, but the unfamiliar thrill pulls at you—electric and intoxicating. “Please…”

“Please… what?” He growls, fingers trailing ever so slightly between you. You almost got him…almost.

“Please…please put your fingers inside me. Please, Joel, I can’t stand how empty I feel. I need you.” You finally beg.

His eyes darken as a smirk displays across his face. “All you had to do was ask.” His fingers finally enter you, your mouth shaping into an Oh at the feeling. “Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?”

You nod fervently, every fiber of you aching to please him, to offer exactly what he desires—an unspoken promise carried in your desperate submission. Two of his thick fingers enter easily inside your soaked walls. You can feel this stretch around his fingers, the fiery burning that sends chills down your spine.

“Please, faster. I want you to go faster.” You plead, riding his fingers and gripping at his biceps with your nails.

“Such a slut. Riding your daddy's best friend's finger when he’s right there sleeping. Begging him to fuck you.” He rasps, shaking his head in a lingering but teasing disappointment.

That should’ve stirred something in you—a warning, a flicker of regret for the path you were on. But instead, it fanned the flames inside you, setting your blood ablaze, a fierce heat boiling low in your belly.

He grabs your torso, pushing you against the back of the tree—stopping you from grinding against him. He holds you tight, leaving a red mark beneath his hold as you try to wiggle free. He pushes deeper inside of you, fingers curling in the perfect spot that dares the heat pooling in your belly to spill over.

His arms finally move, fingers going faster and faster—just as you had requested. Pulling completely out just to bury himself knuckles deep inside over and over again. A wet squelch fills the night air, just under the fading, cracking, uncared-for fire that’s daring to put itself out.

You writhe under his clutch, you know his hand will be bruised against your hip. Your legs start to shake as you feel an undeniable closeness threatening to spill into Joel's hand.

His pace starts to slow, the feeling leaving just as quickly as it came. A groan escapes your lips.

Joel’s hand, impossibly large and fierce, sweeps over your mouth, silencing you with a roughness that feels both unforgiving and utterly possessive.

“You’re not going to come till I fuckin' tell you to.” He seethes. You might be afraid—if desire didn’t drown out every shred of fear burning inside you.

His fingers exit your body, and emptiness overcomes you. He brings them to your mouth, giving a look daring you to open, to taste yourself.

You gulp, the weight of the moment pressing down—can you truly go this far? But with Joel, distance and limits dissolve. Whatever he wants, you’ll offer willingly, as if your very soul depends on it.

Your mouth parts, inviting him in with an innocent look fading across your eyes. A look that makes Joel quiver, fucking quiver. You could come with that sound alone.

You wrap your tongue around his fingers—slowly, intentionally—before pulling them inside. Tasting yourself coated on his digits. You suck them clean, swallowing, letting him know you’re not afraid of what he has to offer. He drags his fingers out—curling around your bottom teeth and pulling your mouth open before his lips meet yours.

He can taste you in your own mouth, and that alone could make him crumble into you, if he allowed it. He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, pulling away at it with a pop. Blood immediately forms around the wound left before he wipes it away with this fingers that just fucked your mouth.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and laced with something dangerous. “Such a disappointment to your daddy, aren’t you? … if only he knew what you’re up to right now.”

“Joel, please.” You whimper, need overcoming you. Submission ready to give in.

“What does my little girl need?” he murmurs, mock-sweet and laced with heat, each word a thread of temptation pulling you further under.

“I- I need you to fuck me. Right now, Joel. I- I need to feel you inside of me.”

With that, Joel pulls your bikini to the side—pulling his own shorts low enough to reveal his glistening tip. How big he is shocks you, you’re not sure if you’re prepared for this, but you know you want it, need it.

He lines himself up with your entrance, tugging your hips closer to him. Your back now leaning against the tree, scratches etching into your skin from the bark. Your hips bent to meet his, legs spread and ready. The sight of you—ready to be fucked, dripping down your own thighs—Joel cant wait any longer.

He grabs the hem of his tank top, aggressively pulling it into his mouth so that he can see him fuck into you better. This movement exposes his belly. How dark hair runs down his navel and meets into his now revealed shaft. His abs are shadowed by his shirt, but you still get a good look. The way his teeth clench around the bottom of his shirt drives you crazy, saliva darkening the edges.

He pushes himself slowly inside of you, stretching your hot walls around him. He can feel you clench as you get used to the size.

“So fuckin' tight.” He groans, words muffled by his shirt in his mouth. “Don’t worry, gonna open ya up real nice.”

You whimper at the words, the sight, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you endlessly. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried deep inside of you, pushing against your cervix. You look down and realize he’s all the way in —you can't see him anymore, just croch to croch. Clit brushing against the hair just above him.

“Look at her, takin' me all in like a good girl.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. “She’s a good girl, ain’t she?”

You nod, realize he’s talking about your aching cunt. You can feel him throb inside of you. You need him to move, now. But you remember, he wants you to beg. He won’t do anything without you asking him for it.

“Fuck me Joel.” You groan. “Fuck me hard. Ma-make me scream.”

He finally pulls himself out, your walls clenching and begging him to stay.

“Such a dirty girl.” He huffs, slamming himself into you in one harsh movement. Making you scream just like you asked. “Your daddy know his little girl has such a filthy mouth?”

You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sting—but this is what you asked for. What you begged for. And now, you’re unraveling beneath the weight of it.

He pulls and slams into you faster now. The sound of skin slapping fills the air, the fire now dead, bodies only lit by the moonlight. Joel pulls himself into you, your bare breast now rubbing against his ruffled-up tank top. His teeth now focused on biting at the sweet, soft skin of your neck.

He can hear the way his moans sound, gruff and airy as if he’s trying to keep quiet—trying to keep in control. The sound opens you up, invites him in deeper.

His hand reaches down in between your legs, rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You shake violently as his free hand pulls at your hair—your back arching into him at an impossible position. You’re going to be so sore tomorrow.

“I can feel how close you are.” He breaths into your ear, hands still circling around your aching, swollen clit. “Wanna come on my dick?”

A whisper escapes your lips. You try to nod, but his hand his gripped so tightly into your hair it makes it impossible to move.

“Use your fuckin' words.” He growls, biting the lobe of your ear in punishment. His hands let go of your hair, your neck thankful for the loss, and he pinches your nipples harshly.

“Yes…”

“Yes…what?” He commands. His teeth now biting the skin around breast before sucking it soothingly. He’s being so rough with you, something you weren’t expecting, but you can't deny the way your body reacts.

“Yes. I want to come on your big dick. I want you buried deep inside of me while I do it.” You cry.

He lifts up from you. Hands gripping both hips harshly, you know this is to keep you upright for what's about to come. “Fuck, such a dirty mouth on my girl.”

And then he slams inside you at an impossible pace. His tip slamming into your cervix—that’s definitely going to bruise. Screams leave your mouth; you'd cover your mouth to muffle them if your nails weren’t digging into Joel's wrist for support.

The tree’s bark bites into your back, jagged and unforgiving, the sting blooming with every shift—warm and raw, a quiet confirmation that it’s tearing you open. Just like Joel.

The boiling sensation returns deep in your belly as Joel slams into you unforgivingly, moans escaping his lips as well. This time he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull out before you can finish. You clench hard around him, causing him to twitch inside of you.

“Yea? Ya like that? Like me buryin’ myself inside you pussy?” He says—a low grovel in his voice, almost like he’s about to lose himself too. “That’s right. Come on your daddy's friend's dick. Nasty fucking girl.”

That’s enough for you to spill over. You collapse into his grip, legs shaking mercifully, as your juices soak him, escaping out the sides and dripping down your legs, into the grass underneath your feet.

White, slick thread now connect Joels shaft and your cunt, bubbling each time your slide back down into him. A disgusting, sticky sound now entering the night air. You come down from your high, stomach cramping at the sensation—but Joel isn’t finished with you yet.

He lifts you up, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and pushes you pully against the tree. His hands that were once wrapped brutally around your waist now grip violently into he bark of the tree. Some of the bark lifting and falling by the trunk.

His thrust start to falter, he’s getting close now, as he ruthlessly burries himself deep inside your aching cunt, white heat pooling low inside once again.

“Fuck.” He groans, teeth grazing your collarbone. “You’re ruinin' me, babygirl.”

“Joel… please, cum inside me.”

“God. You’re such a slut, aren’t you?” He smirks, but never denies your request. “How badly you want me to cum inside you, huh?”

“So bad. Ple-please. I-I’ve been imagining it for so long. Want it to come true.”

“You been dreamin’ about your daddy's best friend? Been dreamin’ about him cuming deep inside your begging pussy? Now, now… that’s not how a good girl’s supposed to behave.” He mocks, thrusting, getting deeper and harder. “That how you behave for me?”

“Only you, Joel. I- I’m about to come.”

“Come for me, babygirl. Wanna finish at the same time.”

Your nails dig violently into his back, drawing blood that will definitely stain under your nails. His movements start to falter as he throbs deep inside of you. It’s only when you start grinding your hips to meet his movements that he finally falls apart.

White, hot ropes shoot deep into your hot—swollen walls. You finish at the same time, come mixing while creamy slick leaves you and pools at the base of Joel's shaft.

The two of you collapse to the forest floor in a tangle of limbs, the cool earth pressing against your skin. Loud, ragged gasps fill the air, mingling with the distant hum of the woods as you both struggle to catch your breath. Your chest heaves, heart still pounding in the aftermath, the silence between you thick with everything unspoken—raw, breathless, and electric.

Joel finally pulls out of you, removing his shirt and cleaning the sticky come off of himself—before he turns to focus his attention on you. He slowly drags his shirt up the sides of your legs, cleaning the forgotten slick from just minutes ago, before he makes his way to your swollen, fucked out cunt. He cleans the mess, making sure to not miss anything.

Your swim bottoms are ruined and stained. He tears them off before fetching your shorts, shaking them off in case any bugs tried to make them their home on the grassy floor. The mean Joel disappeared—bringing back the sweet one as he dresses you, readjusting your swim top to cover you, and pulling your sweater back over your head.

After he redresses you with an unexpected tenderness, his rough hands gentle as he helps you back into your clothes, straightening the hem with deliberate care. There’s a softness in his gaze you hadn’t seen earlier, something quiet and real beneath the hunger that had just devoured you. When he’s done, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Enjoyed every damn minute of that,” he murmurs, voice low, still thick with the weight of everything that had just passed between you. “Never had anything like that before. Not ever.”

The words land heavy, full of meaning that tightens something in your chest. You nod, cheeks flushed, lips parted as if to speak—but there’s nothing to say that could match the gravity of it. Instead, you follow him in silence, legs still unsteady as he leads you back through the trees, the scent of pine and summer and sex clinging to your skin. The embers of the dying campfire come into view, and relief floods through you when you see your dad still slumped in his hammock, snoring softly, blissfully unaware.

Joel moves with practiced ease, beginning to pack up the remnants of the night—folding chairs, dousing the fire, the clink of metal and the rustle of canvas loud in the quiet. Eventually, he shakes your dad awake with a muttered, “Time to head home,” and the older man grumbles, groggy but compliant, stumbling toward the truck.

The drive back is uneventful, quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional snore from your father in the passenger seat. You steal glances at Joel from the backseat, and though he doesn’t look at you, his hand tightens on the wheel every time your eyes linger too long.

When the truck finally pulls into your driveway, your dad mumbles something half-asleep before stumbling into the house without a backward glance. You start to follow, but Joel’s hand catches your wrist, firm and unyielding. He pulls you back just enough to press you against the side of the truck, eyes locked on yours.

“Can’t wait till next Memorial Day,” he says, voice quiet but rough with promise. And before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—slow, claiming, and utterly certain. The world fades for a moment, everything else falling away under the press of his mouth against yours.

As he pulls back and you finally turn to head inside, legs still trembling from more than just the walk through the woods, one thing is undeniably clear.

Memorial Day is your favorite holiday now.

a/n: Happy memorial day! (:

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